


The Evening Star

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Backstory, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Heroine Big Bang, Motherhood, Multi, POV Female Character, Requited Love, Robert's Rebellion, Romantic Friendship, Trigger: discussion of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some day people will tell tale of Ashara Dayne, the tragic and beautiful sister of the great Ser Arthur Dayne, who flung herself from the Palestone Sword with a broken heart.  They will whisper about the man who dishonored her at Harrenhal, the man who got a bastard on her.  But they will never get the story <i>right</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunspear

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вечерняя звезда](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028688) by [badweather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badweather/pseuds/badweather), [darkling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkling/pseuds/darkling), [Elnarmo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elnarmo/pseuds/Elnarmo), [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account), [zmeischa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmeischa/pseuds/zmeischa)



Her mother falls ill when Ashara is eight, her body weak from the stress of the latest stillborn; Father tells her to leave her mother be, but Ashara is lonely without her mother's company, especially now that her brothers are both being fostered away from Starfall. The servants try to keep her from her mother's rooms, but they fail, and her father shouts each and every time.

And then one day her father says she is being sent to Sunspear to keep Princess Elia company. 

“For how long?” Ashara asks, eyes wet with the idea of leaving home.

“Until your mother is better.”

Ashara would never live with her parents again.

* * *

The Lady of Dorne greets Ashara upon her arrival at the Water Gardens, and Ashara tries to remember her courtesies, not wanting to embarrass herself before her mother's friend. Prince Doran escorts her to the pools while her father's men speak with the Lady, and Ashara wishes the prince would speak to her instead of being silent. Anxiety twists in her stomach, afraid Princess Elia will be as silent as her older brother, and Ashara wonders how long it will take her mother to recover, how long she will be forced to remain here.

Trees heavy with blood oranges shade the pools, which are full of children of all ages. There is laughter and shouts, and Ashara immediately smiles, the merriment so different from somber Starfall; even before her mother fell ill, there was little time for fun, especially once Arthur was sent to Godsgrace to squire. She looks around, trying to find the princess she is supposed to entertain, but there are so many girls, all splashing about in nothing but their skin, and there is no way to tell who is a princess and who is common.

Everyone is the same under their clothes; it is the first lesson Ashara learns here.

Doran escorts her to a chaise lounge beneath one of the trees, a pretty girl of an age with Ashara sitting upon it. She wears a light silk shift, her thick, dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders; Ashara thinks she is beautiful, mayhaps even more beautiful than Ashara herself, and the smile she bestows upon Doran and Ashara is unbearably kind.

“Elia, this is Ashara Dayne of Starfall,” Doran introduces, and Ashara begins to curtsy when Elia tells her to stop, to just sit down beside her. Uncertain, Ashara obeys, watching Doran depart; she is not sure what she is supposed to do with the princess.

“Would you like an orange?” Elia asks, holding up the slices of her own treat.

“I suppose - “

“Oberyn!” the princess calls, and a boy comes running, water dripping from his body, his hair slicked back. Ashara thinks he and Elia could pass for twins, but she knows from her lessons that Prince Oberyn is a year younger than the princess, a year younger than Ashara.

“Yes, sister?”

“This is Ashara; she is my new companion. She would like an orange.”

There is no question or request in her words, but Ashara watches with wide eyes as Oberyn scurries up one of the trees, plucking a ripe orange and hurrying back down. She thinks of her own brothers who would have laughed in her face if she ever asked them to climb a tree for her, and Ashara looks at Elia in equal parts confusion and awe.

As they eat their blood oranges, the juices making their hands and arms sticky, Ashara Dayne decides she may not mind being Elia Martell's companion.

* * *

There is a feast to celebrate Doran's return from the Free Cities and to honor his marriage to Mellario of Norvos, and Ashara is late. She is rushing from her rooms, trying to secure the pins in her hair even as she rushes, hoping no one has noticed her absence; with all the great houses of Dorne at Sunspear, Ashara found many handsome young men eager to keep her company, and one of the Sandstone squires kissed so very well.

“You're shameless,” Elia always laughs, flushing bright as she begs for kissing tales and then gasping at the scandal of it all.

“Why should I be ashamed?” she counters, tugging the ends of Elia's dark hair as if they were still children. “If the gods did not want us to kiss, they would not have given us lips.”

Ashara knows Elia is far too shy to ever kiss a man she does not know well; it is not as if men were not constantly trying, awed by the princess's beauty and pleasing manner, offers of marriage spilling from their lips. Elia wants to be married, wants to kiss the same man every night and bear his children, and Ashara sincerely prays to the Seven for Elia to get what it is she wants, for no one deserves it more than sweet Elia.

But Ashara wants fun, and absolutely nothing sounds fun about one man and a passel of brats tugging at her skirts for the rest of her days.

_Let Elia have her romance; I much prefer passion._

The great hall is already bustling with activity when Ashara enters; she immediately finds Elia speaking to Mellario, and, for a moment, she thinks she has managed to enter unseen when hands settles low on her hips from behind, a firm, male chest pressing into her back.

“You seem out of breath, my lady?” a deep voice purrs into her ear. “What could have possibly gotten your blood so hot?”

“I knew _you_ were in the castle,” she easily answers, twisting her head to look him in the eye, and Oberyn laughs as he releases her, spinning her around for an embrace.

It has been over a year since Oberyn's last visit to Sunspear, not since he returned from Volantis with another daughter in his arms. Elia adores her nieces, showering surly Obara and serene Nym with kisses, but Ashara finds she hasn't much patience for babies; while the other women of Sunspear cooed over their cradles and were eager to play with Oberyn's daughters, Ashara found herself wondering what was so extraordinary about creatures who did nothing but cry, eat, and shit.

Elia says she will feel differently one day when she has her own children; Ashara hasn't the heart to tell her best friend she has no desire whatsoever to bear a child of her own.

Oberyn is handsome as ever, and, much as he did a year earlier, when he moves to kiss her in greeting, his lips catch the corner of her mouth rather than her cheek. His bond with Elia has made Oberyn a consistent presence in Ashara's life as well, and she adores Elia's brother nearly as much as she adores Elia. Unlike most men who played at hiding their interest, Oberyn is blatant with his desire to bed her; before he left to squire at Sandstone, he begged kisses from her. When he returned from Oldtown and from Volantis, he did his very best to get Ashara to agree to giving him her maidenhead, and, when she said no, he declared she was breaking his heart before winking and disappearing with the lord and lady of his choosing.

“It would be like fucking my brother,” she had said upon their last meeting.

Without missing a beat, Oberyn retorted, “Then let's pretend to be Targaryens.”

Judging from the scent of his breath, wine has already passed through his lips, and she hopes he doesn't make a scene the way he did on the Lady's name day; Elia had been so upset for all parties, she worked herself into an illness. Ashara loves Oberyn well, but it can be exhausting sometimes, especially when he is in a foul mood.

“You look delicious,” he says, and, even though he has been praising her beauty since they were children, Ashara still feels that rush of pride as if it is the first time. There are dozens of beautiful women in Dorne, but Ashara revels in the way men whisper she is the prettiest, the most desirable; it certainly does not earn her friends amongst women, who all seem to believe she is scheming to bed their beloveds, but Ashara cares little what anyone thinks of her, especially strangers.

“That's because I am.”

Oberyn smirks. “And who has been tasting you this evening?”

“Whoever I feel deserves a sample.”

His laughter booms over the cacophony of the hall, and Ashara sees Elia watching them, an inscrutable expression on her face. As Oberyn slips his arm through hers under the guise of escorting her to her seat, he playfully growls into her ear, “You're a vicious tease, Ashara Dayne.”

“Only with you, my love,” she giggles.

The rest of the evening is spent dining and dancing, flitting between partners with grace; even Doran dances with her, though he never quite looks her in the eye. She isn't surprised, of course; Doran stopped looking her in the eye once she grew teats, and there have been whispers he doesn't think she is the most suitable companion for his sister. Under different circumstances, Ashara would have worried, but the rest of House Martell loves her, credits her with bringing Elia out of her shell and making her laugh. Even now, after all these years, everyone, even Oberyn, still thinks of Elia as the sickly little girl she was; none of them know Elia the way Ashara does.

Elia Martell may seem frail, but she is pure steel beneath her courtesies; her body may be weak, but Ashara would challenge any man or woman to best Elia when it came to wits.

Later, in Elia's chambers, as Ashara brushes out her friend's hair, Elia declares, “I think you and Oberyn would make a fine match.”

Ashara laughs, carefully working a tangle out of the obsidian strands. “Oh, I doubt that, my friend. We would kill each other in a fortnight.”

“How can you say that? You and he are so alike.”

“That is _why_ I say that. I love your brother, that's true, and I am certain we could be a match for a night or two. But Oberyn has no want to settle down nor do I. What adventures could he have if he was saddled with a wife? And, more importantly, what adventures could _I_ have if saddled with a husband?”

Elia sighs. “You are as stubborn as he is.”

“I'm not trying to be stubborn.” Setting the brush on her dressing table, Ashara struggles for a moment to find the right words before explaining, “Arthur is a member of the Kingsguard, Allyn will be Lord of Starfall, and I am, what, supposed to marry some man I do not love for some gold dragons and the promise of alliance? There is no fairness in that.”

Elia's mouth twists into an expression which is thoroughly Oberyn's as she drawls, “Who says life is fair?”

“That is my point. Life is not fair and is getting unfairer every minute, so why should I lie down and accept that?” Ashara smiles. “I would rather have a hundred lovers who _want_ me than a single husband who weds me out of duty.”

“Matches are not made for love; the love comes later.”

“If _Doran_ , the single most dutiful man in all seven realms, can throw caution to the wind and marry for love, then I believe it possible in every man.” Ashara leans forward, tucking a lock of Elia's hair behind her ear. “You deserve _love_ , Elia, not duty.”

Elia's smile was kind even if her words were not. “Oh, Ashara...you cannot truly be this naïve.”

Ashara doesn't think she is being naïve, but, then again, she is not a princess of Dorne whose mother is actively attempting to marry her to another great house.

She sleeps in Elia's bed that night and, just when Ashara is straddling the line between sleep and awake, Elia whispers, “Is it so terrible I wish you to be my sister?”

Ashara reaches out blindly, finding Elia's hand and clasping it tightly. “I do not need to marry Oberyn to be your sister.”

Her blood may be that of the Daynes, but Ashara's loyalties will always lie with House Martell.

* * *

The Dragon Prince comes to Sunspear, and Ashara knows nothing is ever going to be the same again.

It is the first time she has seen Arthur since he joined the Kingsguard, and Ashara barely recognizes her brother in his white armor. He is tall and broad, golden-haired and more handsome than his brothers-in-arms, but he doesn't look like _her_ brother anymore. His movements, his words, his manners, they are no longer Dornish; it is as if the Targaryens have turned him into someone else, and, were it not for Dawn upon his hip, Ashara would have thought this was not Arthur Dayne.

They were so close once that the strangeness of his bearing makes Ashara's heart ache; it was always Arthur who protected her, who took responsibility for her follies and shielded her from their brother's harsh tongue. When he was sent away to be fostered, Ashara felt as if she lost a part of herself and, unlike Oberyn, _her_ brother never came back. The letters he used to send became far less frequent after he went to King's Landing, and, as she watches Prince Rhaegar dance with Elia, Arthur standing stoically against a wall, Ashara decides she hates Rhaegar Targaryen.

_He takes everyone I love and claims them as his own._

Oberyn openly glares at the prince, and Ashara loves him for it, sitting beside him as they share a skin of sour wine. Men ask her to dance, but she continues to end up in Oberyn's arms, both of them stumbling over their feet, graceless and wine soaked. She is vaguely aware people are starting to stare, the members of court which accompanied Rhaegar gasping as she twists her hips to the rhythm of the drums, Oberyn following the movement with his hands; Ashara doesn't know much of other realms, but she remembers her lessons well enough to know dances from the Rhoyne are not performed in their castles.

She may be sheltered in some respects, but Ashara knows what the other realms say about Dornishmen, the accusations they throw. “The women are practically whores, and you cannot trust the men,” those were the whispers Ashara has heard, whispers which have only grown louder since Oberyn's duel with Lord Yronwood. The other realms spit on Dorne, calling it any variety of names, and it has never failed to infuriate Ashara.

 _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_ may have been the words of House Martell, but they easily applied to all of Dorne. As Prince Rhaegar's people looked at her as if she is entirely beneath them, Ashara wanted to shout, _We never knelt to the dragons, not like the rest of you! You couldn't beat us then and you won't cow us now!_

But even drunk, Ashara knows the words are intemperate and will only embarrass Elia.

When Oberyn spins her, Ashara catches a glimpse of Arthur's face; his clenched jaw and blazing eyes are as disapproving as the rest of the men from the capitol, and it makes something petty and furious roar deep in her chest. How dare he look at her like he was one of _them_ , like his blood wasn't hers, the blood of Starfall? 

“You should escort me to my room,” she breathes to Oberyn, and his eyes flare hot as he agreesleading her from the hall as if there are not dozens of eyes following them. Ashara barely resists the urge to look back, to challenge the men and women who would judge her to say something to her face, but Oberyn's grip is tight, his pace quick.

His mouth tastes like wine and peppers, and Ashara idly recognizes he is a better kisser now than he was the first time he kissed her, when he was eleven and she was twelve; then Oberyn was just a boy begging a kiss before he was sent to Sandstone, and she was amused by her friend's little brother, a boy she considered to be a brother as well. As he presses her against the wall of her chamber, Ashara realizes he is a man-grown now, nothing hesitant or polite in the way he is devouring her mouth or palming her breast, and it is strange how she has known the stories of Oberyn's exploits and witnessed some firsthand without ever before arriving at this realization.

She is out of her gown and shift with remarkable speed, Oberyn's fingers working the laces better than she herself can, and it is on the tip of her tongue to ask how many women he has bedded when she realizes it doesn't matter. She is not going to marry Oberyn; this is not about love.

Ashara isn't sure what it _is_ about but she is certain it is not love.

They stumble to the bed, and Ashara watches, curious and aroused, as Oberyn strips off his clothing; his golden brown skin is unblemished save for a small scar from Lord Yronwood's blade, his muscles well-defined, and, when he pushes his pants and smallclothes to the floor with one motion, she cannot help but stare at his cock. Oberyn smirks when he notices where her attention is directed, and Ashara gasps when he wraps a hand around it, pumping slowly; when she manages to meet his gaze, the look he gives her is positively obscene, and it makes her entire body clench with desire.

“How do you like to be fucked?” he asks, voice rough with want, and Ashara finds herself shaking her head, suddenly uncertain. Whenever she has indulged her passions before, it was she who set the speed, who remained in control; Ashara has always prided herself on her ability to remain levelheaded when it comes to men.

 _It is just Oberyn_ , she reminds herself, moving backwards on the bed, shaking out her hair so it partially covers her bare breasts. _Stop acting like a fool._

“Thoroughly,” she finally answers, and Oberyn laughs as he takes hold of her ankles, pulling her back towards him, parting her thighs and using his tongue to make her moan. Ashara grasps his hair tightly, holding him in place, and every time he chuckles against her flesh, she tugs roughly to keep him on task. By the time she breaks apart, Oberyn's scalp must be aching, but he says nothing of complaint, smiling with lips which shine with her wetness. She is barely finished peaking when Oberyn slips inside her, and there is only a momentarily sting, nothing like the pain other girls have spoken of feeling.

“Don't finish inside me!” she orders when Oberyn's strokes become harder and shorter, and he nods minutely, his fingers stroking where she is most sensitive. When she begins to clench around him, Oberyn withdraws, spilling his seed upon her belly; they lie beside each other until their breathing regulates, the sheets sticking to their skin, and Ashara isn't sure why she waited so long to do something which feels so good.

She is genuinely surprised when Oberyn crosses to the basin, coming back with a wet cloth and cleaning the mess he made upon her. When he returns to bed, Ashara twists her face up, and he kisses her, but the urgency which existed between them only an hour earlier is gone now, replaced with something heavy and sad Ashara isn't sure she can identify.

It is Oberyn who names it. “He is going to take her away from us.”

Ashara knows instantly what he means; Elia has always been _theirs_ , and, if she weds Rhaegar Targaryen, she will not just belong to the prince but to all of Westeros. “She will hate leaving Dorne.”

“You'll have to protect her in the Red Keep. You know how Elia is.”

Ashara says nothing.

Oberyn twists his head to look her in the eye, and Ashara thinks of the conversation she had with Elia weeks earlier about why she could never be her good-sister. “She's not like us.”

“No,” she easily agrees, “Elia is sweet.”

“Sweetness is well-and-good for a sister but not for a queen.” Oberyn sighs heavily. “And I fear she will be queen someday.”

“She does not love Rhaegar.”

“Since when has love ever mattered when a throne is at stake?” He rises from the bed, dressing far slower than he undressed. “My mother once tried to arrange a marriage between Elia and Jaime Lannister, and Lord Tywin said no. A dozen other suitors have come, and Elia has sent them away. But a prince...Even if she wanted to, our mother wouldn't let Elia send him away. And who ever tells the Mad King no?”

Ashara shivers at the mention of King Aerys, remembering the tales she has heard about him. “We cannot let her go, Oberyn.”

“We cannot stop it.” He leans down, brushes a parting kiss against her mouth. “Best brush up on your courtesies, my lady. You'll be in King's Landing in no time.”

* * *

The night before the prince is to depart for Summerhall, Ashara enters her chamber to find Arthur waiting. She freezes at the sight of her brother, uncertain why Arthur has chosen now to visit her, and, for a moment, Ashara feels like a child as Arthur scowls at her; she wishes she had spent more time straightening her appearance before leaving Oberyn's chambers.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Waiting to speak to my sister.” Arthur gives her a once over before declaring, “You look a mess.”

Ashara bristles in anger. “I do not care what you think I look like, brother. Isn't there a dragon you have to tend to?”

Arthur's frown deepens, and she can see his own anger starting to rise. “Oberyn Martell beds every man and woman who crosses his path. He may whisper sweet words to you at night, but the morning will find you alone with a bastard in your belly.”

“Well, I'd hardly be the first woman in Dorne to bear a child with the name Sand.” Crossing to her dressing table, dropping her jeweled hair clip onto it, she adds, “And who says _he_ will leave me? I grow bored very quickly.”

“Yes, I've heard the stories,” Arthur snipes, and Ashara spins on her heel, her hand itching to crash against his strong jaw.

“Don't you dare stand there and judge me! You, with your armor and vows, locked in the Keep, what do you know of my life? What do you know of _life_ at all?”

“I do not see - “

“Precisely! _You do not see._ I am a woman-grown, and what right do you have to come to _my_ home and judge the choices I make?”

“Because this is not your home,” Arthur states harshly, and there is something in his words which makes Ashara's voice disappear. “You are in service to the Martells as much as I am in service to the Targaryens, and you are forgetting yourself. How long do you think the Lady of Sunspear will keep you in Elia's service while you and Oberyn do as you please?”

“Elia would never let me be removed,” she manages.

“You think it will be her choice? You think the ruling princess will let you continue to be with her daughter, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms, while you're swelling with Oberyn's bastard? He will not marry you; your birth is too low.”

“I am a lady of Starfall - “

“And he is a prince of Dorne. When he marries, it will not be to a lady whose house brings them nothing.” Arthur's hard expression cracks, and suddenly he is her brother again rather than the great Ser Arthur Dayne. “Your beauty is like a blade, Ashara; it can wound you as easily as it wounds your enemies. And if you are not more discreet in your...activities, it will get you banished back to Starfall.”

Tears of anger and frustration burn in Ashara's eyes; she is certain Arthur would not dare to lecture their brother about _his_ affairs. “I do not care what you say. Elia will never allow that to happen.”

Arthur sighs, his face twisting in something akin to pity. “Just because they are kind to you does not mean you are one of them. At the end of the day, you serve Elia Martell the same way I serve the Iron Throne.” His face darkens as he intones, “And all servants can be dismissed when they displease their lords and ladies.”

“You know nothing about the Martells.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, “but I know the Targaryens, and Elia Martell _will_ join their house.” There is something troubling in Arthur's eyes, as if he is recalling something terrible, and Ashara feels the warmth leave her body as he authoritatively states, “King Aerys does not tolerate brazenness, especially in women. Trust me when I say he would do more than banish you if he thought you brought shame upon his house.”

Ashara understands then what Arthur is trying to do, what this warning's purpose is. After a moment, she ventures, “I can be discreet.”

He does not look much like a great knight when he gently clasps her shoulders, looking into her eyes with sadness, exasperation, and affection. “If I thought it would do any good, I would tell you to stay as far from King's Landing as you can.”

“I cannot leave Elia.”

“And I cannot leave Rhaegar.” Cupping her face in his large hands, he asks, “You understand I cannot protect you there, that my vows are to the throne? No matter what happens, I cannot raise a hand or even my voice to the Targaryens.”

“Don't worry, brother. The only whispers you will hear is how fine a lady I am.”

Arthur embraces her too tightly, the way he has always has; he has never quite mastered his strength, and, when she hears of his prowess in tournaments or battle, it makes Ashara proud to claim such a man as her brother. But there is something in his unspoken words, in the shadows of his face, which makes Ashara wonder if he would not have been better off remaining at Starfall, living a life far from King Aerys, away from whatever it is which makes him so scared.

And Arthur _is_ scared. For himself, for her, for the realm, Ashara isn't certain, but she can read fear in Arthur's eyes, and it terrifies her.

* * *

Elia is a beautiful bride; Ashara never doubted that she would be. As she walks down the aisle in the Great Sept of Baelor, Ashara sees how happy Elia is, beaming at Prince Rhaegar, who stands before the High Septon. Her gown is the finest purple silk, tailored specifically to accentuate her small bust and the gentle flare of her hips; Ashara herself did Elia's hair, carefully winding curls and pinning them atop her head using jeweled combs Oberyn brought from the Summer Islands. The Martell cloak around her shoulders is a brilliant burst of color amongst the subdued colors in the Sept, and, despite her reservations, Ashara feels such happiness for her friend.

“Pretty for a Dornishwoman,” some fat woman whispers to her Redwyne husband, and Ashara twists her head around so sharply, glaring with such unrestrained hatred, the woman instantly recoils, stammering an apology and justification before stilling her tongue.

 _She is worth a thousand of you_ , Ashara seethes as Elia and Rhaegar say their vows. _She is a Martell of Sunspear, her blood is more noble than yours, and you should thank the Seven your fucking prince has been given the gift of her hand._

As Rhaegar fastens the Targaryen cloak around Elia's shoulders, Ashara prays Elia finds happiness in Rhaegar Targaryen's arms, that she never hears ignorant whispers about their heritage, and, most of all, that Elia has the children she so desperately wants.

If anyone deserves happiness, it is Elia.


	2. The Red Keep

The tourney is being held at Highgarden, and, though Ashara cares little for tourneys, she is grateful to leave the Red Keep with its stifling propriety and the general lack of merriment. Ever since Duskendale, the king did not leave the Keep, and, every time her path crosses with King Aerys's, Ashara always wants to run away. Elia handles him effortlessly, far more adept at managing his moods than poor Queen Rhaella, but Ashara thinks that is only because Rhaella does not seem to acknowledge her husband at all. The only time Ashara ever saw Rhaella truly fight the king was when he raised his hand to Prince Viserys, striking down the poor boy when he fumbled his cup at dinner; if she tries, she can still hear the shouts as he beat the queen, Elia spiriting Viserys away so he did not have to witness anything.

Ashara hates the Red Keep, the Mad King, the courtiers, and a thousand other things which remind her how far from Dorne they are, but she loves a chance to be free from watchful eyes.

There are men and women everywhere as they enter Highgarden, and Ashara watches them with hungry eyes. Already men are turning to watch she and Elia climb from their litter, and Ashara tosses her hair, delighting in the attention; Elia smiles placidly, ever the perfect princess, and, when Rhaegar takes Elia's elbow, Ashara turns her gaze upon Ser Barristan and Arthur, their armor brightly reflecting the sun's rays. As he always does, Ser Barristan seems to blush when she smiles at him, and it amuses her, the way this great man, old enough to be her sire, seems besotted with her.

“Will you be riding in the lists, Ser Barristan?”

“I may.”

“And when you win, who will be your queen of love and beauty?”

Arthur frowns as Ser Barristan replies, “Why, the most beautiful woman in all the realm.”

“And who is that?” she baits, grinning at the older man.

He does not get a chance to answer, called away by Ser Lewyn, and Arthur chastises, “You should not tease him so.”

“Oh, Arthur, I am sure Ser Barristan the Bold does not need you to protect him from me.” Linking her arm through her brother's, she adds, “Besides, he would not break his vows any more than you would. You Kingsguard are an unbearably boring lot.”

“We're honorable,” Arthur counters, an old argument given with the hint of laughter in his voice.

“Honor,” she scoffs with a roll of her eyes. “I will never understand why all the northerners care about honor so much. All the things they've declared dishonorable, it's no wonder they're all so bloody unhappy.”

“Why do you persist on calling everyone northerners when you live in the Keep now?”

“Because I am Dornish to my core, dear brother, and no matter how long I live with these people, I will never understand their ways.” Leaning close, dropping her voice into a mock-whisper, she confides, “Did you know Lady Royce thinks a woman should take no pleasure in being bedded because to do so would be whorish?”

“Ashara,” he laughs, shaking his head.

“If she wants to know what is whorish, she should ask her husband; he spends enough of his coin on their company,” she continues, enjoying Arthur's laughter. He is always so serious, and Ashara has never much cared for serious people. “I've heard he's gotten bastards on a half-dozen whores.”

“Why, I never thought _you_ would judge a man for having bastards.”

Ashara scoffs. “It is not the getting of bastards which is shameful; it's the way the men don't look after them. Oberyn keeps his bastards close, raises them right alongside Princess Arianne; Arianne and Oberyn's Tyene even share a wet nurse.”

“I've heard it said that men in the North raise their bastards.”

“ _I've_ heard it said that men in the North have icicles for cocks, so who would want to bed them at all?”

Arthur's laughter is loud, startling one of the horses and drawing the eye of Rhaegar, who looks at him in amusement. Ashara raises her own voice to join with his, and, for a moment, they are the beautiful Dayne siblings and the world is a happy place again.

* * *

Ashara doesn't much care for the men of Highgarden; they are well-mannered and quick to boast, but Ashara prefers the men she spends her time with to be a bit rougher around the edges, men who do not need to boast because their actions speaks for them. Elia always teases her that, unless a man is regarded as questionable, Ashara has no interest in him, and she has to admit there is a bit of truth to it.

“They are more interesting,” Ashara defends, leaning close to Elia so she can be heard over the music in the hall. “If I have to listen to a man's stories, I'd much prefer they be exciting.”

Elia sips her wine, her hand ghosting over her middle, and Ashara wonders if mother's stomach is bothering her again. Ashara was not sure Elia would accompany Rhaegar to Highgarden, the pregnancy already taking a toll on her body only four moons on, but Elia insisted she was well enough to travel; Elia has always hated being treated as if she was breakable.

“There are men who would fight to wed you,” Elia finally says.

“And if I desired being a prize, I would be flattered.” Ashara shrugs. “Our wants for life are different.”

“What _are_ your wants?” she asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“A man who is good on his feet, better on his back, and harbors no illusions about who I am.”

“And who is that?”

Ashara gestures to the dancing couples, the gambling men, and Lord Mace Tyrell speaking with Rhaegar. “They all _think_ they know me. I'm a lady, I'm ill-mannered, I'm a tease, I'm a whore. They believe I'm the maiden reborn whom they must possess or a fallen women they wish to save. And what is the truth?”

Elia smiles wryly. “You're neither virgin nor whore, and there's no room for what lies in-between.”

“Precisely. I've no use for a husband, but, should I find a man who sees me as I am and loves me anyway, then mayhaps I can find some kindness in my heart for him.”

“Well, I do not know if that man exists, but Brandon Stark has not taken his eyes off of you since he arrived.”

Ashara turns to follow Elia's gaze. Brandon Stark of Winterfell stands within a throng of a men, Northmen all; he is tall and handsome, broad without bulk, and, when he smiles at her with desire in his grey eyes, Ashara cannot help but be intrigued.

“Lady Tyrell says he has bedded every woman who crosses his path without a care,” Elia shares, “and a string of broken hearts follows him wherever he goes.”

“It is not my heart I am interested in giving him,” Ashara counters, smiling at Elia's light blush.

“He is recently betrothed as well.”

“To who?”

“Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. Catelyn, I think her name is. There's talk her youngest sister will wed Jaime Lannister.”

Ashara hears the information, but it means nothing to her. Brandon Stark would not be the first man promised to another who sought her bed nor would he be the last; betrothals were often long and tiresome, especially betrothals to girls who were barely flowered and still years from being able to wed. Catelyn Tully of Riverrun is likely to be a very good wife to Brandon Stark, but that is in the future and the future is not Ashara's concern.

“I'm going to dance with him,” Ashara declares, rising from the table, and Elia shakes her head with a chuckle but says nothing else. As she crosses the floor, Brandon Stark breaks away from his companions, and Ashara stops, waiting for him to come to her; however, when she stops, he does as well, and it startles her.

It fascinates her.

“I will not to come to you,” she announces across the six feet which separate them, but her words do not make him move.

“I will not come to _you_ ,” Brandon counters, devouring her with his hungry eyes.

Men have been coming to her since she was three-and-ten; men never said “no.”

“Then I suppose I shall need to find someone else to keep me company.” She looks to the cluster of Northmen and smirks. “Do you think one of your friends would come to me? Mayhaps they'd like the pleasure of my presence.”

“I'm sure many men would love to indulge themselves on such a pleasure.” Brandon quirks an eyebrow. “Come here and pleasure will be had by us both.”

“If you cannot walk a dozen steps, I have very little confidence you will be able to do anything which would bring me pleasure.” Ashara drops into a mocking curtsy. “Good luck in the lists tomorrow, Lord Stark. I do believe you'll need it.”

He doesn't call after her when she turns or voice a complaint when Ser Lewyn asks her to dance, but Ashara keeps one eye on Brandon Stark, who dances with nearly every woman, including Elia. By the time Elia wishes to retire, Ashara escorting her to her chambers, she is nearly furious with the arrogant Northman.

Elia, of course, finds it hilarious.

“The only reason you care is because, for the first time, a man did not fall at the feet of the beautiful Ashara Dayne,” Elia teases as she slips into her sleeping shift, Ashara carefully folding her gown and placing it in her trunks. 

“You make me sound vain,” Ashara complains.

“You _are_ vain as well as fickle, selfish, hedonistic, and petty.” Elia grins as she slides onto the thick featherbed, laughing outright at Ashara's expression. “But you are my best friend, and I hate to see you so vexed. Do you want me to have Rhaegar call for his head for the treasonous offense of not being captivated by you?”

Playfully scowling at her friend, Ashara declares, “Everyone thinks you are so sweet, but you are a vicious bitch when you want to be, you know that?”

“Someone must keep you from getting too swollen of a head.” Resting her head on the pillows, Elia asks, “Do you truly care if Brandon Stark desires you? Does it matter?”

“Can there be such a thing as being _too_ desired?”

“Depends on the cost, I suppose.” 

“I'm not one to worry about price.”

“Why do you think I worry?”

Ashara pauses, leaning against the solid post of the grand bed. Affection swelling in her heart, she assures her friend, “You have no reason to worry. You are Elia of Dorne, you will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and you carry the heir to the Iron Throne in your belly. If there is any woman in the realm who should sleep easy, it is you.”

She is almost out of the chamber when Elia calls, “Ashara?”

“Yes?”

“Give Brandon Stark my regards.”

She does not speak to Brandon Stark for the rest of the tournament just to prove Elia wrong.

* * *

Rhaenys is a beautiful baby, sweet tempered and quiet, but Ashara knows her birth has angered the king. Though Elia has remained abed since Rhaenys's birth, weakened so badly she can hardly sit upright some days, Ashara knows she has heard talk from the servants about Aerys's rages over his granddaughter's birth.

“What use is a fucking girl?” the king screamed one evening when Viserys asked Rhaella if he could see the baby. 

Another time Ashara could barely contain her own anger when Aerys shrieked, “As if this court needs another Dornish slut!”

She tries to shield Elia as much as she can, but Elia is not dumb; no matter what kind lies Rhaegar feeds her, Elia knows King Aerys is displeased, and Aerys's displeasure can be fatal. Ashara tries to keep herself to Elia's apartments, tending to whatever wants Elia has, even playing with Rhaenys despite her noted lack of maternal instinct. Ashara's concern is Elia, and she tries to keep her thoughts as far from King Aerys as possible.

Elia is stronger today, propped against her headboard, color returning to her cheeks. She has lost much weight since Rhaenys's birth, and Ashara still worries the worst is not over; Elia came so close to death birthing her daughter, and Ashara cannot bear the idea of a world without Elia, who has always been the voice of reason in her life. Rhaenys is chattering nonsense words, her small hands playing with one of Elia's necklaces, and Elia looks so happy, Ashara can almost forget how stressful the past few months have been.

“Rhaegar says there is to be a grand tourney at Harrenhal.”

Ashara has heard the same; Lord Whent has made it known throughout all the kingdoms how he is going to throw the grandest tourney ever held. “I've heard all the great lords will be attending.”

“We are going.”

Stunned, Ashara blurts out, “Are you certain that's wise?”

“Grand Maester Pycelle says it should not be a problem as long as I do not overexert myself.” There is a hint of irritation to her voice as she adds, “I'm not a cripple, you know.”

“I did not say you were.”

“Not _you_.” The sigh which escapes Elia's lips is sad and heavy. “Something is amiss with Rhaegar. I fear...I fear I am not pleasing to him.”

“Of course you are,” Ashara instantly assures her. “You are an ideal wife who has given him a healthy child. What more could a prince ask for?”

“A son.”

“You will have sons, and, even if you do not, Rhaenys will be able - “

The noise Elia makes is the mockery of a laugh, and Ashara is stunned to see tears in Elia's eyes. “This is not Dorne, Ashara. Daughters count for nothing here, and if I do not bear a son, they will wed Rhaenys to Viserys; that is, if Aerys does not give us both to the flames for punishment.”

“You mustn't think that!”

“How can I not?” Elia explodes, the volume of her voice startling Rhaenys. “He has told Rhaegar a true wife would have given him a son, that he has – that he has poisoned the bloodline by marrying me.”

“Rhaegar has told you this?”

Elia shakes her head, wiping at her cheeks. “Varys.”

Ashara scoffs with a shake of her head. “You cannot believe a word that useless eunuch says. He only spreads gossip and lies to make himself appear important.” She reaches out, squeezing Elia's hand as tightly as she could. “Rhaegar Targaryen could have married any lady he wished, but he chose _you_. He would never do anything to hurt you or Rhaenys and certainly would not allow anyone to hurt you.”

“Nothing makes sense anymore,” Elia laments, and she sounds as tired as Ashara feels some days, the kind of exhaustion which comes from being forced to constantly perform, to feign so many courtesies you begin to forget what it feels like to be honest. 

She and Elia have both become accomplished liars at court but only Ashara has been required to lie to her oldest and dearest friend.

“Mayhaps the tourney will brighten all of our spirits.”

Elia smiles, lifting a fussing Rhaenys, pressing a kiss to the little girl's head. “Mayhaps Brandon Stark will be there.”

Ashara gets to her feet, crossing the room to open one of the windows, allowing a light breeze to enter. “Brandon Stark is no concern of mine.”

It isn't a lie; she does not concern herself with Brandon Stark's activities. Ashara harbors no fantasies of Brandon Stark suddenly declaring his love for her and carrying her away to Winterfell; but Ashara has always enjoyed a challenge, and ensnaring Brandon Stark will provide quite the entertainment at Harrenhal.


	3. Harrenhal

There is a girl with Brandon Stark. She is young, recently flowered if Ashara is to hazard a guess, and, while pretty, Ashara does not think she is a great beauty. Her dark hair is braided and coiled, her dress is a heavy wool dyed a somber blue, and she is thin as a reed, barely any curve to her body. And yet, when Ashara sees her burst out in laughter at something the young boy with her says, Ashara is forced to admit there is something about the girl, some ineffable quality which draws the eye.

She is irritated by her own jealousy until Arthur says the girl is Lyanna Stark, Brandon's only sister and the betrothed of Lord Robert Baratheon.

“Robert Baratheon?” Ashara echoes as Arthur escorts her across the yard. “Why would Rickard Stark give his only daughter to a stag permanently in rut?”

“I thought stags in rut were your type,” Arthur japes, and Ashara would have elbowed him in the ribs if he was not wearing his armor. 

“If you are going to allow yourself to be called the most honorable knight in the realm, you should be kinder to your little sister.” Catching a glimpse of Lannister crimson disappearing into the castle, she asks, “Why is Lord Tywin so cross?”

“Because Ser Jaime is being named to the Kingsguard this afternoon, and that means the imp will be his heir.”

While Ashara has never much cared for the Lord Hand, she likes Ser Jaime; unlike his father, Jaime was always friendly, quick to smile and quicker to laugh. Much like the rest of court, Ashara found Jaime Lannister to be very handsome, but her appreciation for his beauty ended there; as amusing as she finds Ser Jaime, he is barely five-and-ten and Ashara does not enjoy teaching green boys how to handle a woman. 

“He's hardly more than a boy.”

“He's proven himself to be a valiant knight, and I am sure he'll serve the throne with distinction.” Arthur jostles her with his shoulder. “Since when do you care who wears the white cloak?”

Thinking of her conversation with Elia, Ashara stops, lifting her eyes towards Arthur. Dropping her voice so it would only be heard by him, she whispers, “If the king ordered you to hurt Elia or Rhaenys, would you?”

Arthur's eyes widen in shock. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because Varys is filling Elia's head with nonsense, and she is terrified it could happen.”

“A knight of the Kingsguard is sworn to follow the orders of his king; it is our duty to serve, not judge.” His face darkens then before emphatically stating, “But no true knight harms a woman or a child, and I would stop any man who tried.”

Across the yard the king's voice rises, shrill and piercing, and Ashara shivers.

* * *

Elia is exhausted by the day's events, but she insists on attending the feast.

“I am not going to spend the rest of my life abed,” Elia declares, removing a necklace of sapphires from her jewel box and fastening it around her neck. “Every great house is here, and I am going to show them I am not as frail as the gossip says.”

 _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_ , Ashara thinks with a wry smile.

Elia sits at the head table with King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar, and Ashara is on route to her place beside Elia's other ladies when a strong hand catches her elbow. She turns to find Oberyn, a warm smile on his face, and Ashara does not feign courtly simpers; instead she embraces him, uncaring who is scandalized, so grateful to see him after all this time. Beyond a brief visit following Rhaenys's birth, Oberyn stayed far from King's Landing; he had spent the past year on the Summer Isles, and, when he reappeared at Sunspear, it was with another baby girl, this one called Sarella.

Oberyn charms Elia's ladies, and Ashara chuckles into her wine when Oberyn breaks off mid-conversation with one of the Hightowers to point to a Dornishwoman across the hall. “Who is that?”

Ashara smiles as she sees precisely who Oberyn has turned his attentions towards; she expected him to spot her earlier. “That is Ellaria Sand, Lord Uller's daughter.”

Setting his wine cup on the table, Oberyn announces, “She seems lonely. I am going to rectify that.”

Her laughter trails Oberyn across the hall. Of all the women he could have selected, only Ellaria is likely to present any sort of real challenge to the youngest Martell.

When the music begins, Ser Barristan asks to partner her, and Ashara easily agrees. He is better on his feet than most men, and, unlike when Oberyn dances with her later, Ser Barristan does not attempt to stare down the front of her gown. Even Jon Connington, who is the single most boring man Ashara has ever met, asks a dance of her, and she nearly forgets about Elia and her teasing about Brandon Stark until she sees the man in question crossing the hall with a smile on his face.

If possible, he has grown even more handsome since the tourney at Highgarden, and, judging by the way he carries himself, Ashara suspects Brandon is as aware of his handsomeness as she is aware of her beauty. She forces herself to remain poised, her face carefully schooled not to reveal her pleasure at his finally approaching her, and, when he stops before her, Ashara offers a small curtsy.

“Lord Stark.”

“Lady Ashara.” His gaze is deliciously impolite, and Ashara has to bite the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. “You look beautiful this evening.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Ashara knows he expected her to pay him a compliment as well, and his brow slightly furrows when she doesn't. “I have to come to make a request of you.”

“A request? What type of request?”

“I've come to ask a dance of you.”

Pride blooms brightly in her chest. “A dance? I thought you said you would never come to me.”

Brandon smirks as he answers, “I am not making the request for myself.” As confusion fills her, the excitement in her chest deflating, Brandon gestures to a solemn-faced man seated at the trestle table occupied by northmen. “My brother Ned would love to partner you.”

“Your brother? If he wants to dance with me, why did he send you?”

Stepping closer, dropping his voice, Brandon explains, “He's shy, but he's a good man who has not stopped looking at you since we've arrived.” When Ashara says nothing, he wheedles, “Come on, Ashara. Give my brother a little confidence by saying yes. You've done far worse with men who weren't so noble.”

She nearly recoils from the words, stung and embarrassed. It is not as if she does not know her reputation; men talk, and even men she has never even met have claimed to have spent time in her bed. But there is a difference between having Arthur gently tease her about her affairs and Brandon Stark so callously referencing them, speaking to her as if they are friends, as if he has not just revealed he thinks her no better than a woman in a brothel.

“Have I?” she drawls, her voice as cold as the ice which forms the Wall, and Brandon seems to recognize he has erred, but Ashara does not want his apologies.

She does not want anything from Brandon Stark, not now.

“Lady Ashara - “

“Tell your brother I would be honored to dance with him.” Eying Brandon with disdain, she dismisses him with a flick of her hand. “You may go now.”

Anger flares hot in Brandon's eyes, but he says nothing, returning to the trestle table and saying something into the ear of his brother. She sees the younger Stark's back stiffen, and, when he turns to say something to Brandon, Ashara can read the hint of panic on the young man's face. Under different circumstances, it would have made her laugh, but she can only think of what Brandon might have told him of her, what Ned Stark is expecting from their dance.

Ned Stark is not as tall as his brother, barely standing a head taller than she; he keeps his hair longer than men in King's Landing, messily tied back to keep it off of his face, which is half-obscured by a beard. Unlike Brandon, whose clothing is obviously expensive, Ned's is simple and unadorned with any marks of House Stark. Whereas Brandon was always smiling, Ned is stoic, inclining his head as he greets, “Lady Ashara, I am Eddard Stark. I thank you for the honor of a dance.”

His words are so stiff and formal, Ashara is almost convinced this is some sort of trick.

He holds her awkwardly, no true grace in his movements, and, at first, he does not look at her, does not speak. It is the silence more than anything which prompts her to say, “Your brother told me your name is Ned, but you call yourself Eddard. Which do you prefer?”

For a moment, he looks at a loss, almost as if he is trying to remember the Common Tongue, before finally answering. “You may call me whatever you like, Lady Ashara.”

“Well, _Ned_ , if we are to be friends, I insist you call me only by my name.” There is a flicker of something across his features, a trace of disapproval quickly stifled, and it is so different from Brandon, she challenges, “Have I offended you, Ned? Am I too brazen for your liking?”

“I have heard women from Dorne speak freer than other women.”

“And I have heard men from the North prefer a woman not to speak at all,” she counters.

There is a hint of anger in his eyes and tone as he retorts, “We are not savages, my lady.”

“Nor are we, my lord.”

His face folds in apology before admitting, “I do not know much of Dorne. I was born at Winterfell and fostered at the Eyrie. This is the farthest south I have ever traveled.”

“I was born at Starfall and fostered at Sunspear, though, I do admit, I have no want to travel above the Neck.”

The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Ned's mouth. “Why is that?”

“I was not built for harsh winters and wildling attacks.”

“What _were_ you built for?” he asks, and Ashara smiles at the way his own question seems to startle him.

“Warmth, laughter, and wine, all of which I'm told you sorely lack in the North.” 

“And what of duty?”

“Oh, I certainly was not built for _that_ ,” she laughs.

“I think you lie, Ashara,” Ned says, and she likes the sound of her name without the title attached, likes the way his lips seem to wrap around it.

“Why is that?”

Ned's eyes move towards the head table where Elia sits sipping wine, smiling blandly at some story Mace Tyrell's wife is telling her. “I have seen you with the princess. If you do not call it duty, what do you call it?”

“Love,” she softly replies, her own eyes focusing on Elia. She knows how much Elia hates having to smile at the men and women who, in private, do not hesitate to describe her as “that Dornish girl” rather than using her proper title; and yet Elia never hesitates to still give them smiles because it is her duty.

Duty can make a person false, even one as kind and gentle as Elia, and Ashara would never have anyone question the sincerity of her devotion to Elia Martell by naming it duty.

She expects Ned to sneer at her answer the way most men would, dismissing her as a silly woman, but he doesn't. Instead he finally meets her gaze unwaveringly and it stirs something in her, the magnitude of emotion contained beneath Ned Stark's proper facade. “I would think it hard to earn your love.”

Ashara slips the hand on his shoulder to the nape of his neck, stroking lightly with her fingertips; his skin is as hot as a Dornish desert, and he inhales sharply through his nose but does not protest. “For those who deserve it, it is the easiest thing in the world.”

“And how does a man come to deserve it?”

“To start?” She leans close, her mouth above his, and she sees his desire to pull away, to keep on the right side of propriety. “He does not send his brother to do his courting.”

The flesh beneath her hand grows hotter still as Ned blushes, but Ashara credits him with not breaking eye contact with her. As the music ends and the musicians begin a new song, Ned asks, “May I have this dance as well, Ashara?”

Warmth begins to spread through her blood. “You may, Ned.”

* * *

Elia does not attend the seven-sided melee, choosing to nap before the jousting later in the day; Ashara doesn't much care to watch men bash at each other, but she is bored inside the castle. The competitors are gathering when Ashara reaches the arena, and she spots the Starks seated across the way. Lifting her skirts to keep them from dragging in the mud, she climbs the stands, and both Brandon and Ned rise as she asks, “May I sit with you?”

It is Lady Lyanna who answers, ordering the youngest Stark to make room for her; Ashara does not miss the way Brandon nods for Ned to sit beside her, something he does with a moment's hesitation, and she cannot help but wonder how two men who bear such a resemblance to each other can be so wholly different.

“Have you wagered on Lord Robert in the melee?” Ashara queries.

Brandon opens his mouth to speak, but his words are drowned out by a decidedly unladylike snort from Lyanna. “It would be stupid if they did; he is still drunk from last night.”

“Lya,” Ned murmurs, and Ashara nearly laughs at how much Ned sounds like Arthur in that moment; mayhaps it is something all older brothers are taught, how to sound disapproving and affectionate at the same time.

She doesn't miss the way Lyanna Stark rolls her eyes at Ned's disapproval nor does she miss the way she pauses for a split second when Robert Baratheon comes to seek a favor. Ashara has seen many ladies who are not particularly pleased with the matches their fathers made, and, while Ashara finds Robert Baratheon to be entertaining in his drunken antics, she cannot imagine having to be his wife.

 _Poor girl_ , Ashara thinks as the melee begins. _Robert Baratheon is a man you fuck, not a man you marry._

But, of course, men never ask their daughters if they _want_ a match; they _tell_ them. It is the only credit Ashara will ever give to her own father; his disinterest in her is all which has spared Ashara from her own distasteful match.

The melee is still ongoing, but Ashara cares little for the goings-on. Ned sits stiffly beside her, his eyes focused on the action, and Ashara cannot help but move her hand, resting it atop his own; she sees a brilliant flush start to rise on his cheeks, and she bites her tongue to keep from laughing. She has never known a man as old as Ned Stark who is so quick to blush, so flustered by her attentions.

 _I wonder if he's ever had a woman_ , she muses, stroking the lacework of veins at his wrist with teasing fingertips, feeling the thrum of blood there. _How far beneath his surcoat does his blush go?_

She leans over, her lips lightly brushing the shell of Ned's ear, as she asks, “Are you riding in the lists?”

He shivers; Ashara smiles. “No, I don't – I don't ride in tournaments.”

“Fighting does not make your blood hot?”

“Nothing makes Ned's blood hot,” Brandon pipes up, smirking at the pair of them, and Ashara hates the way Ned instantly seems to close in on himself, shuttering himself away. In this moment, Brandon Stark reminds her of a child who has found his brother playing with a toy he did not want any longer only to be angry he has it. “He's the most even-tempered man to ever live.”

 _But I am no toy, and I do not belong to anyone, least of all to the brothers Stark._

“That sounds preferable to a man whose blood runs _too_ hot,” she pointedly drawls.

Brandon's laugh skirts the edge of cruel. “I thought all you Dornish girls liked everything hot.”

She opens her mouth, prepared to unleash a verbal beating upon Brandon Stark so severe, it will put the melee to shame; but she never gets the chance, for Ned has already risen to his feet, demanding, “Apologize.”

Surprise is blatant upon Brandon's face as he explains, “It was a joke, Ned.”

“You do not speak to a lady like that. Apologize.”

Brandon scoffs, and Ashara recognizes the look in his eyes; it is the same one the older men at court give her, the ones who get angry when she turns them away, the ones who call her a variety of names both to her face and behind her back. 

She does not wait for Brandon's false apology. Smiling at Lady Lyanna and little Benjen, she bids them farewell and hurries from the stands, wishing to put distance between herself and the Starks. She cannot remember the last time she felt so angry, so positively enraged it nearly choked her.

“Lady Ashara!” Ned Stark calls, and, though she twists her head to see him hurrying towards her, she does not slow her gait. It doesn't matter; Ned catches her easily, striding alongside her with only a few large steps. “Lady Ashara, please, my brother - “

She finally stops, uncaring that there are eyes upon them, that Arthur and Ser Gerold are within earshot and can likely hear every word about to be exchanged. “Is this how things are done in the North? You send your brother to make requests and he sends you to make apologies?”

“My lady, please, what Brandon said was wrong, and I am truly sorry - “

“Why are _you_ apologizing?” she challenges. “It is your brother who has insulted me, and it is your brother who should make amends. Are you your brother's keeper?”

“Sometimes,” Ned admits, and he looks so tired then, older than his eighteen years. He sighs heavily. “I will not attempt to justify Brandon's words, for there is none.”

“Then why have you followed me?”

Ned hesitates for a moment before confessing, “I wished to offer you an escort to your room.”

Ashara studies him for a moment, trying to divine if he is truly as noble as he is claiming to be or if this is an elaborate seduction scheme. After a moment she nods, and Ned takes her elbow, silently accompanying her to the room she shares with another of Elia's ladies. She expects Ned to attempt to kiss her.

When he doesn't, when all he gives her is a wish of a pleasant afternoon and a lingering look full of tightly guarded want, Ashara feels something unfamiliar stir in her chest.

At supper, she sits between Arthur and an ugly Florent girl, but her eyes keep finding Ned across the hall. A few times her eyes find his, and she doesn't flash him coquettish smiles or lower her eyes in play; there is something about Ned Stark which makes her put aside the games she usually likes to play with admirers. Ashara barely knows the quiet wolf, but there is so much coiled inside him, she longs to unleash it, to see what secrets he keeps beneath his solemn face.

“Ned Stark,” is all Arthur says, and Ashara feels herself blush like a maid beneath her brother's knowing gaze.

“What about him?”

“He's a good man.” Arthur smiles over his wine cup, and Ashara sees something of herself in his expression. “And, unlike his brother, _he's_ not betrothed.”

“Are all you white swords such gossips?”

Her brother reaches over, resting his hand atop hers and squeezing lightly. “You'd make a pretty bride.”

“I make a pretty everything,” she counters, and it isn't said with arrogance. Her beauty is as much a fact of her life as Arthur's skill with a sword is part of his; it is not arrogance to know where your strengths lie, and, while Ashara has many strengths, she knows her beauty is all men ever see, ever _wish_ to see.

He shakes his head with a chuckle. “You are exhausting.”

Rhaegar begins to pluck out a song on his harp, and Ashara barely manages to avoid rolling her eyes. Unlike most of the ladies at court, she has never much cared for the sad romance of Rhaegar's songs, and she has heard them all a dozen times. Excusing herself, Ashara slips from the hall, wandering the corridors; she finds a window seat near the end of the hallway and stares out at the night sky, the brightness of the stars reminding her of the view from the Palestone Tower at Starfall. She has not been home since the Lady of Dorne's trip to Casterly Rock after Lady Joanna's death, and sometimes Ashara thinks she could find her way blindfolded through the halls of Sunspear or the Red Keep better than she could through her family's home.

She thinks of her mother, gone two years now, lost in the birthing bed as she brought forth Allyria; Ashara has not yet met her baby sister, and sometimes she asks Arthur if he thinks she should go back, if a visit would be the right choice. 

“It's not our place anymore,” was all Arthur said, and Ashara knew he was right; Starfall belonged to their father and, one day, their brother. Arthur's place was with the king and Ashara's was with Elia, as it always had been.

The scratch of boots against the floor catches Ashara's attention, and she sees someone approaching her. She expects to see Arthur or even Oberyn, but it is Ned Stark; everything about his bearing shows how uncertain he is about whatever he has set out to do, and she feels a little pity for the younger Stark. Ned Stark is a better man than his brother, but Ashara has never seen such a lack of confidence in a man.

“Hello, Ned.”

“Are you – Are you well, Ashara?”

“As well as any woman can be.” She gestures to the empty cushion beside her and Ned tentatively sits. “I do not have an appreciation of Prince Rhaegar's music as others.”

Ned is quiet, waiting for her to say something else; there is something beautiful about him in the muted light, and Ashara finds herself reaching out, running her fingers along the line of his jaw before slipping over his lips. It is not a generous mouth, but she likes the way it softens beneath her touch, the way _he_ softens.

“Have you ever kissed a woman, Ned?” she murmurs, moving closer to him.

“Yes,” is all he says, so different from the other men she has known who are always eager to catalog the depth of their experiences.

“Have you ever bedded one?”

He startles at the question, and, for a moment, Ashara thinks she has offended him so deeply, he will leave her side to never return. But then she looks into his grey eyes and sees hunger, sharp and pure; it reminds her of the direwolf on the Stark banners, and she wants to touch the ferocity inside Ned Stark. 

“No.”

“Why not?” she asks, slipping into his lap, straddling him as best as her gown allows. His hands remain at his sides, but she can feel his cock, hard as steel, beneath her. 

“Ashara,” he breathes, shaking his head, and she brings her lips to his, swallowing the rest of his protest.

He tastes strongly of beer, and, as she sinks her fingers into his hair, she wonders if he drank to summon the courage to follow her. His mouth is unyielding for a moment before she feels him starting to respond, tentative and light. She traces his bottom lip with her tongue, coaxing his mouth to open; his tongue is hot against hers, and the low moan from deep in his chest makes heat flare through her. The kiss deepens, one of Ned's hands settling on her hip, the other cupping her face, and she can feel it now, the loosening of his control.

 _Who are you, Ned Stark?_ she muses as she slides one of her hands down his chest, her fingers brushing the hardness in his pants, wrenching a moan from his lips even as he grabs her hand.

“We cannot,” Ned gasps.

“We _can_ ,” she assures him, rolling her hips in small circles, the rush of pleasure warming her blood. 

His hands bite painfully into her hips as he attempts to still her movements. “I will not dishonor you.”

It takes every ounce of control she has not to laugh. “The only maid between the two of us is you, my love, and I promise not to tell tales of how I stole your maidenhood.” When Ned does not laugh or smile, does not do anything but look at her with guarded eyes, Ashara feels her blood begin to cool; she knows judgment when she sees it. 

She climbs from his lap, smoothing her skirts and cursing the peculiar shame rising in her throat. “What, have I spoiled your illusions of me? Did you want me to be a blushing virgin, some silly, little maid who would run away from you with virtue all aflutter? So sorry to have disappointed you.”

“Ashara...”

Glaring at him, watching as he attempts to adjust his breeches to hide his desire, she snaps, “I hope your honor keeps you warm at night, Lord Eddard, because I suspect no woman will ever get the opportunity.”

“Lady Dayne - “

She hurries away from him, so angry and strangely embarrassed by Ned Stark's rejection; Ashara has never been ashamed of the sharing her bed with men before and how dare some Northern second son try to shame her! As she stalks back towards the dining hall, Ashara's fury burns as hot as dragon fire, and, when Brandon Stark steps into her path, she does not hesitate to grasp the front of his shirt and purr, “And where are you escaping to, Lord Stark?”

There is surprise in Brandon's eyes but desire as well, and Ashara knows _this_ Stark will not dare push her away.

The whole affair lasts mere minutes. Brandon Stark takes her in a shadowy corridor, her skirts rucked up around her waist, his laces undone just enough to free his cock. Ashara winces from the force of his thrusts, the elder Stark's breath hot and moist against her neck, and she gasps more from indignation than pleasure as Brandon spills inside her without making any effort to see to her pleasure. As he pulls away, Ashara looks at him in disbelief; for all the whispers she heard about Brandon Stark's prowess, this was the last thing she expected.

 _Ned would never treat me like this_ , Ashara realizes as Brandon presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek before disappearing down the hall, leaving her sore between her legs, his seed on her inner thighs. The tears hit her so suddenly, Ashara cannot prepare for them, and it is the first time she has ever regretted fucking a man.

She has just reached her chamber when Oberyn exits Elia's, a joyous smile on his face. Ashara knows he has spent the majority of the tourney thus far romancing Ellaria Sand, and Elia has taken to teasing her little brother about how taken he is with the woman. He pauses as he looks at her, and Ashara sees something fierce overcome his handsome face.

“What happened? Who hurt you?”

Ashara laughs wetly, pushing away a stray tear. “I hurt myself, is all. No need to defend my honor if there's any left to defend.”

Oberyn's dark eyes flare as he steps into her, one warm hand falling on her shoulder. She leans forward, resting her forehead against his collarbone the way Elia does when she is tired, and he begins to card his fingers through her hair. “I saw Ned Stark follow you out of the hall.”

“I hate all the Starks,” she lies against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the scent of home. 

“Fuck the Starks and their Northern honor,” Oberyn declares, lifting her chin with two fingers. “You're far too good for any of those icy pricks, and I _will_ duel anyone who dares try to take you above the Neck.”

She doesn't know why his words make her cry in earnest, but suddenly Ashara is sobbing, her hands tangling in the back of his shirt. Oberyn stiffens only for a moment before wrapping her tightly in his arms, shushing her as if she is one of his girls. Ashara cannot remember the last time she ached this sharply, and she is not certain she can bear this strange pain.

“You are better than this,” Oberyn murmurs against the crown of her head. “You are better than the Starks, better than any of these Northern bastards. You're practically a princess of Dorne.”

A rueful laugh escapes her lips. “I'm no princess, just a servant.”

“No.” Oberyn cups her face, tilting her head so that she is looking directly into his dark eyes. “Your blood may be that of House Dayne, but I assure you: you could not be more Martell if you tried.” 

Ashara is suddenly embarrassed by her tears on her cheeks, but as she goes to wipe them away, Oberyn is already there. She sighs, rests her forehead against his, and confesses, “I did a stupid thing tonight.”

“I do, at least, one stupid thing _every_ night,” Oberyn assures her with a playful smile. 

“Yes, but no one will whisper about how ruined you are behind your back and act as if you do not even matter.”

Oberyn is quiet for a moment, tucking an errant lock of dark hair behind Ashara's ear, before suggesting, “Mayhaps you should come back to Sunspear for awhile. We'll visit my girls at the Water Gardens, spend all day drinking wine and frustrating Doran. What do you say?”

“I cannot leave Elia,” she immediately protests.

“She will come with us.” Oberyn's smile widens. “We'll take Elia and Rhaenys with us, and it will be like old times. The world makes more sense in Dorne; you know that.”

“I do,” Ashara allows, letting excitement for the idea warm her blood. “We could send for Allyria too. Daynes and Martells, together again.”

“Always.” Oberyn leans in, pressing a long, chaste kiss to her lips. “Do not worry about the Starks. Neither one is worthy of you.”

Ashara appreciates the sentiment, appreciates Oberyn and the way he cares for her, but she does not know how to tell him she fears she is not worthy of Ned Stark, especially after what she did with Brandon.

* * *

“Aerys is in a lather over the mystery knight,” Elia divulges a few days later as they watch knights from all seven kingdoms knock each other to the dirt. “He screamed at Rhaegar last night because he only found the shield, as if that is somehow Rhaegar's fault.”

Ashara resists the urge to smile at Elia's tone. She may not care much for the Dragon Prince, but Ashara knows Elia loves her husband and is offended for him. “By the end of the tournament, he will have forgotten the Knight of the Laughing Tree entirely.”

“When does the king forget anything?” Elia drawls, a pained expression flitting across her features.

“Is something wrong? Are you alright?”

Elia nods, gesturing to the field where Rhaegar is preparing to ride against Ser Barristan. “I hate this. So much could go wrong. I have begged him not to do this, but he insists it is what a prince does.”

“You do not want another wreath of roses to add to your collection?” she teases, enjoying the way Elia teasingly glares at her.

“If Ser Barristan wins, _you_ will be the one with another wreath. Everyone knows the man is half-mad for you.” Ashara waves her hand dismissively, and Elia eyes her for a moment. “It never exhausts you, being the object of so many men's fantasies?”

“It would bother me more not to be the object of _any_ man's fantasy.” Something like bitterness rises in Ashara's throat. “We can't all be princesses, my lady.”

“Mayhaps not,” Elia concedes, “but there is a man here who looks at you as if you are.”

Ashara follows Elia's pointed gaze and sees Ned Stark across the field seated between his sister and younger brother. Even from a distance, Ashara could see the sadness and longing in his grey eyes; guilt over Brandon licks at her, and Ashara finds herself unable to look at him, her eyes dropping to her lap.

“He does not need to know about his brother,” Elia whispers as Rhaegar and Barristan lower their visors. “A single mistake does not define you, and everyone says Eddard Stark is a fine man.”

“A fine man but not a man for me,” is all Ashara says before the prince and his knight ride at each other.

Ashara has never much cared for tourneys, especially once Arthur has been unhorsed. The fact that men feel the need to charge at each other with massive sticks to prove their manhood utterly mystifies her, and she certainly never bets as other ladies do. Oberyn told her once you can tell who will win a tilt from the moment the men charge, and, as Barristan and Rhaegar ride, Ashara thinks Rhaegar will win. Both men's lances are certain, but, as she assumed, Barristan tumbles from his saddle while the crowd roars for their prince. Elia claps, smiling at her husband's accomplishments, and, not for the first time, Ashara wonders what it is about Rhaegar Targaryen Elia loves. 

There had been a time before Rhaenys's birth that Ashara thought Elia simply tolerated the prince. For all the secrets they tell each other, Elia has never spoken much of Rhaegar; until Rhaenys was conceived, Ashara had not thought they even shared a bed, and she can still remember the blush high on Elia's cheeks as she confessed Rhaegar bedded her nearly every night. She does not think the love between them is passionate; Rhaegar is so solemn, Ashara does not think he even knows _how_ to be happy. But Elia loves her husband, and Ashara has never seen Rhaegar treat Elia with anything other than the utmost respect and affection.

Ashara thinks of this as Rhaegar trots his destrier past where she and Elia sit, laying the crown of winter roses into the lap of little Lyanna Stark.

For a moment, Ashara doesn't quite understand what has just happened, unable to reconcile what she is seeing with what it means. She hears the hum of whispers and gasps from the crowd, and Ashara immediately turns to Elia. Her best friend sits with her back stiff as a board, her chin lifted high, dark eyes staring at nothing; if she is shamed, she does not show it, and it is the first time Ashara has ever thought Elia looks like her mother. There is a flurry of activity over their shoulders, and Ashara twists her head to see Oberyn trying to get out of the stands, Ser Lewyn keeping hold of his arm, and Ashara does not know what to do, if she is to stay with Elia or calm Oberyn before he gets himself killed.

“Go,” Elia murmurs under her breath, her eyes tracking Rhaegar's movement across the field. “Keep him calm and bring him to my chambers. Have Lewyn escort you.” When Ashara hesitates, she is stunned by the steel in Elia's voice as she snaps, “That is an order from your princess.”

Ashara gets to her feet, startled by Elia's words, and quickly hurries to the Martell princes. Oberyn looks positively murderous at the slight upon his sister, and Ashara knows with certainty that if King Aerys sees him, it will end terribly.

“Elia wants you to join her in her chambers,” Ashara tells him, Oberyn still struggling against Lewyn's bruising grip. “Come with me.”

“No, I am going to - “

She does not hesitate to press her hand over Oberyn's mouth, hissing, “Do you want Elia to see you killed? Stop it and come with me right now!”

Oberyn's entire body is tight with tension as Lewyn escorts him from the stands; Ashara links her arm through Oberyn's and can feel the way his body is vibrating with rage. She does not remember moving so quickly through a castle since she was a child, and, the moment they are in Elia's chamber, Oberyn explodes, “I am going to kill him!”

“Keep your voice down!” Ashara urges, her eyes flicking towards Lewyn whose handsome face reveals nothing but whose eyes blaze as bright as Oberyn's. “If the wrong person hears you - “

“Let them hear! Let them hear that - “

“Let them hear your sister mourn your death by fire?” Ashara cuts in, pushing at his chest. “Let them hear your daughters scream at what they've lost all the way from the Water Gardens? Now is not the time!”

Ashara does not think she has ever seen Oberyn so angry; as he stomps back and forth across the floor, she eyes him warily, and she wonders if Lewyn would actually pull the sword which rests on his hip. She is not sure how long they have been in Elia's chambers when she arrives, but the moment she crosses the threshold, Oberyn is there, taking hold of her shoulders.

“You must let me defend you,” he implores, and Ashara sees the little boy he once was, the one who would scurry up trees to fetch oranges, who would do anything to make Elia smile when she suffered in her sick bed. “What Rhaegar Targaryen has done - “

“You will do nothing,” Elia interrupts, her voice even and firm, detached in a way Ashara does not recognize. Even when angry with her brother, Elia has never sounded so disconnected; it is disconcerting to say the least.

“Elia - “

“Your behavior today was inexcusable,” Elia continues, her chastisement cool rather than hot. “You are a prince of Dorne and my brother, and it was an embarrassment to yourself, to Sunspear, and especially to me.”

Oberyn nearly recoils from the words. “What he did - “

“Is not your concern.” Ashara sees a tremble in the fists Elia has clenched at her sides, but her voice never wavers. “I will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Oberyn, and you would do well to remember that. I do not want or need your defense, and whatever shame my husband visited on me today, you increased sevenfold with your outburst.”

“Elia,” he tries again, but she turns her head, looking at her uncle.

“Uncle Lewyn, you will escort Oberyn to his chamber and you will keep him there until first light.” Returning her gaze to her brother, Elia declares, “You will leave Harrenhal tomorrow morning, and you will return to Dorne. You will not insult your prince or House Targaryen this way ever again.”

Whatever fight exists within Oberyn dies before Ashara's eyes as pained confusion fills his face. Ser Lewyn moves slowly, taking Oberyn by the elbow and taking him away, and it is only as the door closes and Elia seems to crumple that Ashara realizes who Elia reminds her of in this moment.

It is not the Lady of Dorne at all; it is poor Queen Rhaella.

“Elia?” Ashara ventures as her friend sinks into the seat before her vanity. 

“I must dress for the feast,” she announces, her hands trembling as she pulls pins from her hair, ripping her brush through her thick, dark hair. “I have to be there. People will talk - “ Her voice breaks, breath hitching as the tears come, and Ashara instantly stand behind her, taking the brush from her hair, letting Elia cry into her hands. Ashara carefully works the tangles from Elia's locks, and, as she does, she tries not to focus on how much she despises Rhaegar Targaryen.

As Ashara begins the tedious process of weaving Elia's hair into one of the complicated styles women of the capitol so seem to favor, Elia softly breathes, “She's so young.”

“What?”

“Lyanna Stark,” Elia clarifies, her hands twisting in her lap. “She is barely four-and-ten, little more than a child.” Her laugh is wet and mirthless. “I am a crone in comparison.”

“A crone?” Ashara scoffs in disbelief. “You are four-and-twenty, Elia, and still the most beautiful woman in all seven kingdoms and the Free Cities too.”

“And yet _she_ is his Queen of Love and Beauty.” She fiddles with a jar of rouge on the vanity. “I am four-and-twenty, wedded and bedded for five years, and I have only given Rhaegar one child, and a girl child at that. He sees a pretty, young girl, and everyone knows the Starks are fertile stock - “

“Stop it right now.” Squeezing her shoulders, meeting her gaze in the mirror, Ashara states, “ _You_ are Rhaegar's wife, the mother of his child and the future children you will bear him. Lyanna Stark is nothing, a Northern girl who isn't particularly pretty and betrothed to Robert Baratheon besides. He will forget her as easily as every man forgets a passing pair of teats.”

“And when he beds her?”

“Her brothers will never allow that to happen.”

And Ashara firmly believes it. As disgusted as she is by Brandon Stark and as conflicted as she feels about Ned Stark, the one thing the brothers seem to have in common is a love of their younger sister; Ashara thinks a man would have a better chance walking through fire than relieving Lyanna Stark of her maidenhead.

Elia is quiet for a long time, patient and still as Ashara finishes her hair, finishes making her look like someone she is not. It is not until she is lacing Elia into one of the stiff gowns they both hate so that Elia repeats, “She's so young.”

 _And we are not_ , Ashara hears in the silence.

When they enter the great hall, the whispers are still loud enough that Ashara can make out certain words, but not a single person could question Elia that night. She sits unashamedly beside Rhaegar, smiling and clapping for the musicians, dancing with every high lord in attendance; it is almost as if she is invigorated by Rhaegar's slight, and Ashara watches the way Rhaegar seems to be looking for someone who is not present.

It is not until Rhaegar and Elia are dancing, their beauty a study in contrasts, that Arthur sidles up beside her, his eyes shadowed with concern.

“The Starks and the Baratheons left after the tournament,” he divulges in a low whisper. “They say they ride for Riverrun and then on to the North. Poor Lyanna Stark rode through the gates surrounded by her brothers with the hood of her cloak nearly hiding her face entirely.”

“Good,” Ashara declares resolutely. “Elia does not need this stress.”

Arthur says nothing, but there is a tension in her brother's jaw Ashara cannot understand, almost as if he is literally biting back words. She does not wish to think on Arthur's unspoken words or the angry Dornish prince hidden away upstairs or even fucking Rhaegar Targaryen.

All Ashara can think about in that moment is Ned Stark and his grey eyes, headed towards Riverrun and then back to the Vale with Lord Arryn. 

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, concerned.

She quickly nods, schooling her face into a more pleasing expression. “I am just tired.”

The feel of Arthur squeezing her hand catches Ashara by surprise, but she does not hesitate to return the gesture, her eyes trained on the prince and princess spinning about the floor.

She thinks of Allyria at Starfall, of Doran's Arianne and Oberyn's quartet of daughters, and Ashara envies their innocence.


	4. The Dragon's Lair

Ashara has never cared much for the gods. She learned her lessons as a child, could name the Seven and what each symbolized, but she never prayed, never cared what sour-faced septas and hypocritical septons had to say about life. It wasn't as if she was alone in her lack of belief; neither of her brothers ever spent much time in the sept at Starfall, and her father used to say those who relied on the gods to solve their problems would find themselves always weighted down with problems. At Sunspear, it was even less devout; Ashara dutifully attended services at the sept when Elia was interested in going, but she was much more interested in those who worshipped the red god or the Summer Islanders who praised the gods with wine and sex. The Faith of the Seven was so constricting, and Ashara felt stifled enough without the gods becoming involved.

But as Elia begins to labor for the third day and Grand Maester Pycelle sends Ashara from the room, all she can think about is the statue of the Mother in the sept at Starfall. If she closes her eyes, she can picture it perfectly, can remember the scent of the candles as her lady mother took Ashara there to pray for the baby which was eventually stillborn. She wonders if her mother prayed before Allyria's birth, if her prayers went as unanswered then as they did the first time.

She is not sure what to do once sent away. With Rhaenys, Ashara remained beside her throughout the entire birth, holding her hand, whispering assurances that everything would be fine. But Pycelle insisted, actually had Ser Gerold remove her from the room when she refused, and now Ashara stands in the chamber overlooking the gardens of the Keep, her anxiety making her sick to her stomach. Ashara is unaware how long she has been standing there when she hears footsteps; she turns and registers Arthur in his golden armor only a moment before Prince Viserys, violet eyes bright with excitement, declares, “Aunt Elia had a boy!”

She smiles weakly at the young prince, running an affectionate hand over his silver hair, before turning her eyes up to Arthur; he instantly knows what she is asking and assures her, “Elia is weakened but alive.”

Elia is more than simply weakened; she is nearly dead, her face chalky, eyes glassy. When Ashara is allowed back into her chamber, Elia cannot even lift her head from the pillow, and Ashara feels tears welling in her eyes. She takes Elia's hand in her own, squeezes it, but Elia can only loll her head, the hint of a smile on her lips, before drifting off again. Rhaegar stands by the window, Aegon cradled in his arms, and Ashara hates him so sharply then. As if he can sense it, Rhaegar turns to face her, studying her speculatively, before handing the baby to his wet nurse.

The moment they are out of Elia's chamber, Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan standing silently in the corridor, Rhaegar says her name, and Ashara recognizes the tone; it is the same patronizing way he says Elia's, the voice he uses when he thinks charm and beauty can make up for whatever wrongs he has committed. It infuriates Ashara so acutely, she cannot stop herself from snapping, “Oh, do not speak to me as if I am your friend!”

Rhaegar blinks in surprise, and Ashara wonders if anyone has ever spoken unkindly to him. “It has been a trying few days, my lady, but Elia desired another child as - “

“Of course she did! What choice did she have but to have another, especially once you shamed her so publicly?”

“You do not understand - “

She scoffs disgustedly. “You think you are such a mystery? I am not Elia, Your Grace. I know how men are, and you are certainly no different. She has nearly killed herself to give you your precious son, and it still will not be enough. It never is with men like you.”

A muscle in Rhaegar's cheek jumps with tension as he clenches his jaw, and, if he were any other man, Ashara would have slapped him right then and there. “Ser Jaime,” Rhaegar finally says, “please escort Lady Dayne to her chambers.”

Ashara knows if she was any other woman, such insolence would not be tolerated. But she is Elia's closest friend and Arthur's sister, and so Jaime Lannister will walk her to her room rather than to her death. The boy is quiet, the clank of his armor seeming to echo in the corridors, and, when they reach her door, she turns to actually look at the youngest knight of the Kingsguard.

“My mother died in childbirth,” she blurts out, uncertain why she is telling Jaime Lannister this detail of her life.

His green eyes flicker peculiarly as he replies, “As did mine.”

Arthur comes to her that night to upbraid her speaking to Rhaegar so disrespectfully, reminding her what could happen if Aerys learns of her insolence, but all she can think of is how much she hates everything about King's Landing, hates House Targaryen and every damned dragon in it.

 _They will be the death of her,_ Ashara knows with absolute certainty. _They will be the death of all of us._

But leaving is not an option, so Ashara forces herself to smile every time violet eyes fall upon her.

* * *

It is pure happenstance.

Elia is still abed nearly two moons after Aegon's birth, recovering even slower than she did when Rhaenys was born, and just this morning, as another tray of onion broth, bread, and honey was brought, Elia sighed and expressed a wish for the spiced marmalade made from blood oranges they used to have for breakfast in Dorne. There is a shop near Flea Bottom which sells Dornish delicacies, and Ashara decides she is going to purchase all of Elia's favorite treats.

She is exiting the shop, her arms burdened down with a large parcel of Dornish food, when Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon exit an ale house. Ned sees her instantly, stopping in his tracks, while Robert, already unevenly swaying on his feet, nearly tumbles at the abrupt stop. Ashara hugs the bundle against her chest, feeling suddenly painfully exposed beneath the happy surprise radiating in Ned's eyes.

“Lady Ashara.”

“Lord Ned.” Turning a pleasant smile on his drunken companion, she inclines her head in greeting. “Lord Robert.”

“Lady Dayne!” Robert booms, surprising her by moving forward and embracing her as if she is an old friend. Ashara winces, concerned about crushing the sour berries she purchased, but Robert pulls back, shooting a look which is not even subtle in the slightest towards Ned. He steps forward, uncertain, and Ashara does the same, her heart fluttering when, instead of embracing her, he presses a kiss to the top of her hand.

“This is quite the surprise,” she manages, reclaiming her voice. “What brings the two of you down from the Vale?”

“Lord Arryn had business with the small council, and we accompanied him,” Ned explains. “This is a poor part of the city for a woman to wander unaccompanied.”

She lifts the package in her arms slightly. “It is the only place in the city to purchase Dornish food. Apparently you Northerners don't have a taste for spice.”

Desire flares bright in Ned's eyes as Robert laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “That's what I'm always telling him.” Mischief in his smile, Robert adds, “Ned, why don't you escort Lady Ashara back while I get another round?”

Ned freezes, obviously uncertain what to do, and it makes Ashara smile at his romantic ineptitude. She has thought of Ned Stark many times since Harrenhal, wondered how he was and if he thought of her as well; Elia encouraged her a handful of times to write him at the Eyrie, Elia's idea of being bold, but Ashara had never put pen to paper, had no idea what to say to Ned Stark or even the reasons why she still thought of him.

“I wouldn't mind the company,” she states, and she can see the blush beneath his beard as Robert claps him on the shoulder again with a booming laugh before throwing open the door to the ale house and bellowing, “Have you missed me already?”

Ashara waits for Ned to speak, to offer his arm, but he seems a bit lost without Robert at his side; she steps forward to begin the walk back to the Red Keep, and the movement spurs Ned to action, his hands reaching to take her parcel, extending his elbow for her to take. There is a tremble in his muscle, and it oddly relaxes her to know he is still as affected by her as she is by him.

“I had thought I would not see you again.”

Ned's blush seems to deepen. “I am sorry I was not able to say a proper farewell to you, my lady, but Brandon thought it best we leave Harrenhal - “

“Yes, Prince Rhaegar certainly made a mess of things, didn't he?” she cuts in, the anger at Elia's slight always a smoldering coal in her chest. “How _is_ Lady Lyanna?”

A smile tugs at Ned's lips. “Lyanna is as she ever is, which is to say she is driving my father to distraction at Winterfell. She and Benjen spend their days riding in the wolfswood and playing games.”

“You sound envious.”

“Do I?” Ned offers the tiniest of shrugs. “I suppose it is easier to be the last child; all the expectations have already been handed out to the older ones.”

Ashara smiles, thinking of Allyria at Starfall, free to do as her little heart pleases. “I think you may be right.”

“She is to wed Robert soon. Brandon rides for Riverrun in a moon's turn to wed Catelyn Tully, and then she will go to Storm's End.”

“Will you remain in the Vale?”

“Lord Arryn has no sons, only distant cousins to inherit. I know the Eyrie well, and he has invited me to stay there, to help him in his affairs.”

“You do not want to return to Winterfell?”

A shadow falls across Ned's face. He is quiet for so long, Ashara opens her mouth to change the subject when he explains, “There is no place I love more than Winterfell, and I love my family.”

“But?”

He sighs. “But Brandon and I are very different people who often find ourselves at odds about everything. When we are together, it only ends in conflict, and I do not have the stomach for it.” Ned smiles weakly. “You have older siblings, do you not? It may be different with brothers and sisters.”

Ashara shakes her head, a lock of dark hair falling across her forehead. “No, not really. My eldest brother Allyn, even when we were children, we could hardly be in the same room together without sniping. Arthur was always the one to shield me from it. I suppose it is why I do not hunger to return home. Allyn will be Lord of Starfall, and I...”

“You what?”

Something like anxiety twists her stomach. “I do not know. My place has always been with Elia. I suppose it will always be my place.”

“Do you not want a place of your own?”

“Don't you?” she counters, and she sees a blush begin to rise on Ned's neck, his ears flaming crimson. After a moment, he murmurs, “Mayhaps we could find a place together.”

She is confused for a beat, stopping in the street so she can look at him; Ned studiously avoids her gaze, and it is only when Ashara lifts her hand to his cheek that his stormy eyes meet hers. “What are you saying, Ned?”

“I am a second son,” he states, his deep voice thick hoarse. “I have no lands and no riches to promise you. I know we parted on bad terms at Harrenhal, but you are truly all I have thought about over the past months. Robert says I am a fool, and mayhaps I am but...” 

“But what?” she pushes, her voice sounding breathy even to her own ears.

“I would be a good husband,” he blurts out, and Ashara can hear the edge of panic in his words, almost as if he cannot believe he is even saying these things. “I am sure many men have made offers for your hand, but if you would consider me, I promise I will be the most dutiful husband you shall ever know.”

He isn't wrong; men have certainly expressed a desire to wed her, though usually when their cock was hard and they wanted her to see it to it. Once, one of the boys from Godsgrace – she cannot even remember which one now – made a serious inquiry to her father; Ashara remembered the brief letter her father sent her, outlining the boy's offer but emphatic that she could certainly marry someone of higher standing. At the time, Ashara did not care; marriage has never been a priority, children even less so, and she always intended to remain with Elia.

But she is five-and-twenty now, and there are whispers about court that she is too old to be a companion. Elia's life has become about the children, about Rhaegar, and, when Aerys dies, about being queen; they are not children anymore, and Ashara thinks now may be the time to finally grow up.

“I do not know much about being a wife.”

“I do not know much about being a husband,” Ned admits, “but we could learn together.” Hope shines in Ned's eyes. “I could have my father speak to your father, we could make arrangements - “

Ashara lifts her hand, pressing her fingers to his lips. “I cannot leave Elia until Rhaegar returns from visiting the kingdoms; she is still weak from Aegon's birth and needs me. Write your father; he may have different plans for you.”

“No, he'll understand.” His grey eyes soft with affection, he presses, “Does this mean you want - “

“Yes,” she cuts in. Glancing at the gates of the Keep, she turns back to Ned and declares, “I wish to see you tonight. There's a place near the water run by a woman called Chataya; Robert will know where it is. Tell her you are a friend of Oberyn's and ask to use his room. I will meet you there.”

“Ashara - “

She stretches up on her toes, brushing her lips against his before hurrying towards the Keep, not wanting to hear his cries for honor and propriety. A smile plays at her lips as she imagines Ned's face when he realizes Chataya's place is a brothel, pictures the blush on his cheeks and the way he will stutter through his words.

Elia sleeps for the remainder of the day and Arthur is with Rhaegar, visiting the kingdoms, leaving Ashara with no one to share her news with; not for the first time, she longs for Sunspear and its wealth of people she trusted. As she puts on her most flattering gown, unwinding her hair so it spills becomingly in dark curls over her shoulders, Ashara wonders if there will be people she can trust in the Vale, if she will feel as alone there as she does here.

It is not so difficult to sneak out or in of the Red Keep. Ashara has done it dozens of times, and tonight, as she pulls the hood up on her cloak, she doesn't think twice about it. She is rushing down the serpentine steps when she crashes hard into someone, her body spilling backwards against the steps; from the clank of metal, she knows she has collided with a knight, and, when she looks up, she sees a startled looking Jaime Lannister.

“I am sorry, Lady Ashara,” he says, helping her to her feet. “I did not see you there.”

“It's fine, Ser Jaime.”

They look at each other for a moment, and Ashara wonders where the young knight is hurrying to so late in the evening. She knows not all of the Kingsguard hold their vows as steadfastly as Arthur; Ser Lewyn has kept a paramour for ages, and there are whispers even the White Bull has stumbled a time or ten. But never once has Ashara heard whispers about Ser Jaime having a lover, and she is nearly as good as Varys in ferreting out information.

“I did not see you if you did not see me,” Ashara offers, and Jaime nods, both of them heading on their way.

Ashara does not remove her hood until she enters Chataya's brothel. She sees the beautiful Summer Islander instantly, and Ashara crosses to embrace her, kissing her cheeks. Chataya wears green silk tonight, the slight bulge of her stomach the only indication she's several moons gone with pregnancy, and Ashara smells sandalwood and the spice Oberyn took to wearing after spending time with Sarella's mother.

“Your lord is in Oberyn's room. You remember the way?”

Ashara nods, feeling the urge to blush at the memory of Oberyn's last visit to King's Landing, before trying to press a golden dragon into Chataya's palm. Instantly the other woman shakes her head, pushing the coin back at Ashara.

“For as much coin as Lord Baratheon will be spending, consider the room a gift.” A mischievous smile curls Chataya's lips. “A handsome man, your new lover.”

“I trust you will be discreet?”

Chataya nods. “I would hardly be good at my job if I was not.”

When Ashara opens the door to the room, she sees Ned standing at the window, the soft lantern light casting the room in shadow. He turns, his eyes going wide at the sight of her, and Ashara silently removes her cloak, revealing the diaphanous lavender gown she has never worn outside of Dorne.

“Oh,” is all Ned says, awe in his voice, and Ashara thinks she cannot imagine a sweeter man to wake up to every day than Ned Stark. His hand shakes as he reaches for her, stroking down the line of her jaw, the line of her neck; she cups his face, the tips of her fingers lightly massaging the sensitive skin behind his ears.

He kisses her like the world is ending, the tentativeness of Harrenhal gone as Ashara arches into his touch. Her hands fall to his tunic, working it up over his head, and her fingers find a raised scar over his heart. She brings her lips to the gnarled flesh, feels his heart thumping beneath his breastbone; his breath hitches as his fingers bury themselves in her hair, drawing her head back to look up at him.

“I do not expect - “

Ashara pressed her fingers to his lips, stilling his words. “I know you do not _expect_ , Ned. It is half of your charm.” Rising on her toes, kissing the point of his chin, she whispers, “I will be your wife, yes?”

“Yes,” he answer immediately and emphatically.

“Then think of this as practice for our wedding night.”

His awkwardness is endearing as she urges him back towards the featherbed, Ned sitting hard on the mattress as Ashara stands between his knees. She can see the tremble in his body as she reaches behind her, tugging the ties of her gown so it pools at her feet; from the way Ned's eyes widen, Ashara suspects he has never seen a nude woman before, that she is now the woman he will compare all others to.

 _Except there will be no other_ , Ashara thinks as she takes his hand, brings it to her breast and bites the inside of her lip at the feel of his calloused fingers on sensitive skin. _He will never seek another's woman bed, will never love any woman but me._

Ashara is surprised by the depth to which the idea of that moves her.

“You are so beautiful,” Ned sighs against her breastbone, and Ashara cannot help but compare the pure sincerity in his voice to the smooth charm of Brandon's. There is nothing of Brandon in Ned, no impulsiveness or selfishness. _He is like Elia_ , she realizes, climbing into his lap, her fingers stealing between them to loosen his laces. Ned moans into her mouth, but he does not pull away this time, shuddering as she takes him out of his smallclothes, wraps her fingers around his cock and strokes him softly.

She hears Ned's breath catch only a moment before his seed spills across her fingers. Ashara sees the bright flush of his embarrassment on his cheeks, sputtering in humiliation, and she smiles, wiping her hand on the bedding and kissing him softly.

“It is fine, my love,” Ashara murmurs, nudging him onto his back as she tucks herself against his side. “It is better this way. Now we can take our time. I have so much I can teach you.” She kisses under his jaw, nips the thin skin over his collarbone as her hands work his pants and smallclothes down his legs. “Do you want to learn?”

Ned nods, his grey eyes shining, and Ashara thinks he looks so young then, barely more than a boy. She knows he is younger than she is, than Brandon; she thinks he is eight-and-ten, nearly eight years her junior, and Ashara pushes down the fear that Rickard Stark will refuse the match, will declare she is too old and unlikely to bear children.

Ashara does not want children, has never had the desire Elia has to mother, but she thinks she wouldn't mind a babe with Ned's stormy eyes.

She takes his hands, shows him how to touch her, how much pressure to use; Ned's lips tremble as he wraps them around her nipple, the tip of his tongue flicking tentatively. Ashara moans, sinking her fingers into his hair, leading his hand between her thighs to stroke and tease. By the time she is shaking and arching into his touch, Ned is moving with more confidence, whispering her name and praising her beauty. When she peaks, her heart racing in her chest, Ashara laughs a bit breathlessly, tugging him down for a long, slow kiss.

Ashara urges him onto his back, throwing her leg over his body and bracing her hands against his broad chest. Ned stares up at her, one large hand rising to cup the side of her face, and Ashara thinks he may be the most innocent man she's ever met, one of the last good men left in Westeros. They are a dying breed; men like Ned and Arthur, men who believe in honor and defense of the weak, have no place in Aerys Targaryen's kingdoms, and, though once she sneered at such ideals, years in the Red Keep have taught Ashara how valuable they are.

As she takes Ned Stark into her body, she knows the other men were all just practice; this is real.

They make love twice that night, the second time with Ned atop her, his face buried in her throat as he moans his love for her. Afterward, he lies with his face between her breasts, Ashara carding her fingers through his hair as they doze. She kisses the crown of his head, smiling at the rasp of Ned's beard as he turns his head to kiss the inner curve of her breast.

“It will be light soon. I need to get back to the Keep.”

Ned nods but does not lift his head. “Yes.”

She laughs, shoving at his shoulder. Ned rolls from her body, watches as she rises and wets a cloth, cleaning the sweat from her body and his seed from her thighs. As she pulls her gown back on, tying the strings with nimble fingers, Ned only watches, his expression inscrutable.

“What?” she finally asks, pulling on her slippers, combing her fingers through her dark, tangled curls. 

“I cannot believe you are going to be my wife.”

Ashara pauses, smiling playfully. “Trust me, my lord: no one else will believe it either. They had written me of as a lost cause years ago.”

Ned sits up, pushes to his feet and walks across the room unashamed with his nudity; Ashara waits, letting him pull her cloak around her shoulders, fastening it with the jeweled star pin Elia gave her when they were still girls. He kisses her softly, almost chastely, before tugging the hood up to hide her face.

“The next time I see you, it will be for our wedding.”

Ashara cups his face, places one last, lingering kiss on his lips. “Then the sooner, the better.”

The sky is just starting to lighten as Ashara steals back into the Keep, hurrying up the steps. Rather than head to her chambers, she enters Elia's room. Casting off her cloak, she slides beneath Elia's furs, resting her forehead against Elia's. A moment later, Elia's eyes flutter open, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.

“What mischief have you been up to tonight?” Elia whispers.

“I'm getting married.”

Elia's dark eyes become more alert as the words sink in. “Married? To whom?”

“Ned Stark. We are to wed as soon as Rhaegar returns and Lord Stark and my father work out the terms.”

“Do you love him?”

Ashara finds her hand, tangles her fingers with her friend's. “I feel _something_. It may not be love yet, but it will be.” Snuggling closer, she whispers, “Are you mad?”

“Of course not.” Elia brushes her lips against Ashara's forehead, squeezing her hand. “You deserve to be happy, and I hope Ned Stark will do that.” Elia's smile falters a moment before admitting, “But I will miss you sorely.”

“You can visit me in the Vale, and I can visit as well,” Ashara swears. “It won't be like our mothers; we'll never stay away long.”

“You are going to be Lady Stark.”

“And you will be Queen Elia.”

A sardonic smile tugs at Elia's lips. “Of the two, I do believe you have received the better deal.”

As Ashara's eyes sag shut, she feels Elia move closer, encircling her body with frail arms. She is nearly asleep when she hears Elia whisper so softly it is hardly audible, “I'll be lost without you.”

Ashara loves her more than life, more than _anything_. If Elia asks her to stay, Ashara knows she will.

But Elia does not ask and Ashara does not offer, and so they simply fall asleep.

* * *

Ned has been gone from King's Landing for nearly a moon's turn when the raven arrives from the North. Ashara is seated on the floor with Rhaenys, showing the little girl how to drag a bit of string across the floor to make her little kitten give chase, while Elia cradles Aegon on the bed, laughing at Rhaenys's antics when Queen Rhaella enters the chambers.

Ashara has always felt incredibly sad for Rhaella Targaryen. Once she must have been a great beauty; with her silver hair and violet eyes, Ashara imagines she turned heads in all Seven Kingdoms, that bards sang of her beauty and knights were eager to name her their Queen of Love and Beauty. But marriage to Aerys has aged her unfavorably, and Ashara thinks there are more lines on her face than any woman her age should have, a sadness and numbness in her eyes which show just how detached she is. The only time Ashara ever sees life in the queen is when she is with her sons or her grandchildren; there are whispers throughout the castle that she is swelling again, but Ashara cannot tell in the tightly cinched gown she wears today.

Ashara sees the parchment in her hand only a moment before Rhaella looks upon Elia and says, voice heavy with devastation, “There has been news of Rhaegar.”

Elia's face falls instantly, and Ashara knows where her thoughts are; if Rhaegar is gone, so is her protection from the unkindness of King's Landing. Aerys will never allow her to return to Sunspear with the children, and Elia will not want to remain in the Red Keep without her husband. “Is he injured?”

“No, he - “ Rhaella breaks off, looks down at Rhaenys, who brightly smiles up at her. She looks so much like Oberyn's girls, like Elia must have been she was small. “Rhaenys, my love, Viserys is in the gardens. Why don't you go join him?”

Rhaenys nods, scooping Balerion into her arms and rushing to find her uncle. Ashara slowly climbs to her feet, prepared to leave, but Rhaella turns to her and requests she take Aegon from Elia. Ashara crosses to the bed, accepting the sleeping babe as her stomach begins to twist anxiously. She lays the baby in the cradle as Rhaella announces, “Rhaegar has run off with Lyanna Stark of Winterfell.”

For a moment, Elia is as still as a statue. After several moments of indeterminable silence, all she can manage is, “Excuse me, Your Grace?”

“The maester at Winterfell sent a raven. Apparently Rhaegar... _kidnapped_ Lyanna Stark from their godswood with the assistance of the Kingsguard. Lady Stark is betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and there is concern Rhaegar might - “

“I understand the concern, my queen,” Elia interrupts, and Ashara sees it then, the flicker in Elia's dark eyes. She watches as Elia squares her shoulders, straightens her spine; the fragility in her face disappears, and Ashara marvels at the way Elia seems to be transforming into both of her brothers in that moment. The rage in her eyes is Oberyn, burning hot as wildfire, while the cool detachment in her voice and actions is pure Doran. 

“Oh, Elia,” Rhaella sighs, genuine anguish in her voice, “I am so sorry. I never dreamed Rhaegar would do something like this. He has always been so kind, so unlike - “ She breaks off, but Ashara knows what the rest of the comparison was meant to be, what words even the queen would not dare speak with Varys's little birds everywhere.

“It is not for me to judge my husband and my prince,” Elia offers, her words carefully measured, and Ashara sees the confusion in Rhaella's eyes at such a calm reaction. “I am certain he will return the Stark girl in good time. Has the king heard the news yet?”

Rhaella nods. “He has sent Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell to find Rhaegar and Ser Arthur.”

Ashara flinches at her sound of her brother's name, not wanting to believe Arthur would be party to something so terrible. But even Ashara knows her brother is a loyal soldier and friend, and if Rhaegar gave the order, Ashara does not doubt Arthur followed it.

“Thank you for telling me, my queen. I would only ask that Rhaenys - “

“We will make certain the princess does not hear,” Rhaella vows. Touching Elia's hand in support, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms departs.

Before Ashara can say a word, Elia pushes back the blankets and orders, “Help me dress.”

“Dress? For what?”

“I must eat in the hall tonight,” Elia declares, holding out her hands for Ashara to help her to her feet. “I must be seen by the lords and ladies, by King Aerys. They must see.”

“See what?”

“That I am not some broken woman!” Elia snaps, and Ashara hears it now, hears the fury and offense churning in her body. “That I am not so easily replaced! I was a princess before Rhaegar Targaryen and I shall be a princess after him, and, by the Seven, every man and woman in the kingdoms will know it! Now are you going to help me or should I summon someone else?”

Ashara grasps Elia's hands, pulling her to her feet; she has to support her weight against Ashara's body, her legs still weak after moon abed, but Ashara watches as she shuffles towards her vanity table. She sinks down onto the bench and declares, “I wish to wear the gown Aerys gifted me when Aegon was born, the crimson and black. And I will need the rubies Rhaegar gave me and the dragon combs from Rhaella.”

It takes far longer to ready her than it once did, but Ashara works with the utmost care to lace Elia into the gown, to curl and pin her black curls atop her head; the carved obsidian dragon combs complete with ruby eyes hold her hair in place, and, when Ashara places the rubies around Elia's slender neck, she thinks it is the first time Elia has truly looked like a Targaryen princess. As Elia uses rouge and lip stain to put color into her face, Ashara has never felt more honored to serve her.

When Ashara moves to fetch her wheeled chair, Elia shakes her head. “I must walk into the hall.”

“Even with me bearing your weight, you will be too tired to walk unassisted.”

“I must walk into the hall,” Elia stubbornly repeats, and Ashara recognizes this is a royal decree, not the request of a friend.

Ser Barristan stands outside Elia's chamber, and he smiles when he sees Ashara. She had hoped it would be Ser Lewyn, whom she trusts to keep Elia's secrets above the king's, but Ser Barristan is her only hope at the moment.

“May I request a favor from you, Ser Barristan?”

“Anything, Lady Dayne.”

He carries Elia as far as the doors to the dining hall, setting her carefully on her feet. Elia thanks him heartily, and Ashara cannot resist brushing a kiss against his cheek. The older man blushes brightly even as he assures them he is happy to serve the princess, but Ashara does not have time to consider Barristan the Bold's affection for her while Elia is making her way to her seat.

They all stare at her, but Elia never wavers. Ashara knows what a toll this walk must be on her, both physically and emotionally, but Elia is the very embodiment of House Martell's words as she approaches her seat. As one of the servants pull out of her chair, Ashara hears Aerys call her name, and Elia pauses while Ashara holds her breath. There is a tension in the hall, no one certain what King Aerys is about to do, what humiliation he is about to visit on his good-daughter.

But all the king says is, “Beside me tonight,” and Ashara exhales gratefully as Elia moves to the seat beside Aerys, _Rhaegar's_ seat.

Elia nearly collapses outside the hall, but Ser Lewyn scoops up his niece without a second thought, carrying her back to her chamber. Grand Maester Pycelle comes to give her a dram, and, while he tends to her, Ashara steals to the rookery, sending a raven to the Eyrie for Ned. She cannot imagine what it is like for him to know his sister has been taken by Rhaegar, and she wants him to know that Aerys is looking for Lyanna, that she is certain she will be recovered soon.

In her haste to write Ned, Ashara does not even consider Brandon.

* * *

The last day of life as Ashara knows it dawns like any other. She wakes, helps Elia dress, and they dine in her chambers. It is unseasonably warm, and they sit in Rhaella's solar with the children; Ashara is laughing at a story Elia is telling, Rhaella's fingers working to embroider a blanket for the babe she is carrying, and Viserys is chasing Rhaenys about the room when the shouting starts. For a moment, they all pause, confused as to who could possibly be behaving this way, and then Ashara makes out the words.

“Rhaegar! Come out and die!”

“Oh, gods, no,” Ashara gasps as she recognizes Brandon Stark's voice, and she does not think before getting to her feet and rushing towards the great hall. 

She barely gets inside the hall before Ser Lewyn catches her wrist, stilling hard enough that she suspects she will find a bracelet of bruises in the morning. His voice is rough and short as he orders, “Go back to Elia.”

“But Brandon - “

“Is already dead and, if you interfere, so will you be. _Go back._ ”

The last thing Ashara sees before the gold cloaks descend is Brandon being pulled from his horse, his handsome face starting to bleed as a mailed fist connects with his cheek.

Rhaella and Elia look at her anxiously as she returns, Viserys and Rhaenys staring up at her in confusion. Ashara takes her seat and tells them the only thing she knows: Brandon and his companions have been taken by the gold cloaks after threatening Rhaegar's life. There has been so sign of Rhaegar since Lyanna's kidnapping a fortnight earlier; there is no one here for Brandon to duel, no one but Aerys, and that thought terrifies her.

“He came for Rhaegar,” is all Ashara manages to choke out before nausea sweeps over her. She presses a hand to her mouth, rushing to a basin before emptying the contents of her stomach. Dimly she hears Rhaella summon a septa, who sweeps the children away, but Ashara cannot contain her illness, cannot stop retching into the basin.

Elia's hand settles on her back before Rhaella joins them. The queen presses a cup of water into her hand and Ashara rinses her mouth, trying to chase the sour taste away. As she wipes at her clammy forehead, she forgets herself and murmurs, “The Mad King will kill him.”

If Rhaella hears the insult attached to her husband's name, she gives no sign of it. Instead she presses a handkerchief to Ashara's mouth and simply agrees, “Yes.”

Until that moment, Ashara would have sworn she hated Brandon Stark. But she knows what happens to men who displease the king, and she cannot imagine vibrant Brandon Stark meeting his end like that. She asks her leave of Rhaella, who grants it easily, and Ashara returns to her chamber. Wriggling out of her gown, Ashara lies on the bed in her shift, staring at the ceiling. Her instinct is to write Ned, to tel him what is happening, but she shudders to think what Aerys would have done to her if she was caught communicating with a member of House Stark. Her stomach continues to churn and, as she turns onto her side, Ashara winces at the pressure on her tender breasts. The realization hits her hard, and Ashara begins to desperately count backwards, tries to remember the last time she bled.

 _Not since Ned_.

Ashara vomits again.

* * *

Ser Lewyn tells them that Aerys has sent for the fathers of Brandon and his companions, that they are to answer for their sons' treason. Ashara tries to remain calm as she listens to Ser Lewyn explain what is likely to happen, but she lacks Elia's even temperament and the fear begins to weigh on her. All she can think of is Ned, safe in the Vale but undoubtedly worried about his brother, his sister, and now his father. She thinks of the babe in her belly, the one she has not even told Elia of yet, and wonders if mayhaps she should board a ship bound for Gulltown, join him in the Eyrie where their child would be safe.

But going to Ned means abandoning Elia, and she cannot do that, not when Rhaegar is still in hiding with Lyanna Stark and nothing in the world makes sense.

“Do you think the king will kill their fathers?” Ashara asks. 

Lewyn's face reveals nothing, but his eyes flick towards Elia before lying, “I am not certain.”

It is strange how the heart works. After Harrenhal, Ashara thought she'd never think of Brandon Stark again, that her lingering attraction to him was gone completely. But the longer he remains in a black cell, the more Ashara feels as if she should _do_ something, _help_ him in any way she can. Brandon is impulsive and careless, self-involved and intemperate, but he loves his sister and does not deserve to die in an attempt to save her. If the situation were different, if somebody took _her_ , she would hope Arthur would come for her, would want to save her from whatever fate she was suffering.

It is the most potentially dangerous thing she has ever done, but Ashara finds Lord Varys easily. He never strays far from the king, but today he is leaving the small council room when she catches him. Ashara dislikes the man, and she has never trusted eunuchs; while her talents for poetry or the harp are non-existent, Ashara knows how to handle men, but Varys is different. When Lord Varys looks at her, it is not with desire or distrust; he looks at her as if he is trying to size her up, trying to determine whether or not she is a threat to be eliminated.

Ashara suspects Varys's true allegiance is only to himself, and that makes him a dangerous man indeed.

“Lady Dayne,” Lord Varys greets with a false smile. “What a pleasure it is to see you. Does Princess Elia require me?”

“No, it is I who require your assistance.” Glancing about, she murmurs, “May we speak in private, Lord Varys?”

The bald man quirks an eyebrow but nods, escorting her to a quiet alcove. His hands are hidden in his robes, and Ashara suddenly remembers a story Allyn used to tell her and Arthur, a tale of a false wizard who kept tricks in the sleeves of a robe. So amazed by his magic, no one noticed it was all fake.

“How may I help you, Lady Dayne?”

“I need to visit the black cells.”

“Really? I had heard it was a different Stark who holds your heart.”

Ashara frowns at his tone and snaps, “I am not asking to call on a lover, Lord Varys. I simply need to speak to Brandon Stark before...before...”

“Before the king exacts his justice?” Varys suggests, a hint of mocking in his voice.

“Precisely. Are you able to help me or not?”

“If you were to be discovered, you would join Lord Stark in his cell.”

“But I will not _be_ discovered if what is whispered about you is true.”

Amusement shines in Varys's eyes. “And what do they whisper?”

“Shouldn't you already know if you are the Master of Whispers?”

He smiles, and Ashara swears she can see something like respect in his gaze. After a moment, he declares, “I will come for you at midnight. You must do as I say and, whatever you do, do not say a word to the princess.”

There had been a time when keeping secrets from Elia was beyond her, but that time has passed; Ashara feels as if all she is doing now is collecting secrets, shielding Elia from the machinations of evil men.

Lord Varys arrives in disguise at midnight with a rough spun servant's dress. Ashara follows his instructions, putting on the dress, tightly fastening her hair into a knot at the base of her skull; Varys smudges dirt upon her face and orders her to keep her eyes downcast for, while a servant girl is not memorable, a servant girl with violet eyes will be remembered. She has never been into the dungeons, and the temperature is much cooler; she shivers as Varys speaks to one of the guards, Ashara struggling to balance the tray weighted down with bread and water for the prisoners.

Varys holds the torch as they enter the dungeon, and Ashara nearly chokes from the stench. All five of the men wince at the bright flare of the torch, but they gratefully clamor forward for bread and water. She sees Brandon chained against the wall, dried blood upon his face, a beard shadowing his jaw where once his face was smooth, and Ashara sets the tray on the ground as she squats before him. He squints and smile wanly.

“I do not know what stories you have heard, my lady, but I am in no condition to service you right now.”

“I was not so impressed with the first showing to request a second,” she retorts, lifting a cup of water to his chapped lips.

Brandon's eyes narrow and then widen in surprise. “Ashara.”

“I don't have much time. Aerys has sent for your fathers to answer for your crimes. They're to arrive within the next day or so. Is there a message - “

“Lyanna,” Brandon interrupts, impatient even now. “Is there word of Lyanna?”

She shakes her head. “They are still looking for them. A raven from Ser Oswell says they think they may be in the Reach.”

“That fucking dragon - “

“Do you have a message you want me to give to someone?” Ashara pushes on, speaking over him. “To Ned or your father or your other brother, the one in Winterfell?”

Brandon is quiet for a moment before smirking. “Catelyn Tully at Riverrun. Tell her I'm sorry I missed our wedding, but I'll be back as soon as I can.”

 _You stupid boy, you're never leaving this Keep_ , Ashara thinks even as she agrees, “I will send a raven in the morning. Brandon - “

“I never told him.” Meeting her gaze, he clarifies, “Ned. I never told him about Harrenhal.”

It is likely the closest Ashara will ever get to an apology for what happened then, and it makes her lean forward, pressing a kiss to his filthy cheek. “Conserve your strength. Your father will be here soon.”

Brandon rattles his chains. “I'll do my best.”

“My lady,” Varys prods, and Ashara gets to her feet, stepping around the smallest boy to follow the Spider from the dungeons. She does not look at the other men, Brandon's companions in lunacy; they mean nothing to her and they are just as stupid as Brandon, riding into the castle of a mad king to support the murder of a prince. As she follows Varys up the steps, she thinks of little Lyanna Stark, barely flowered at Harrenhal, and wonders if Rhaegar knows what he has wrought with his crime.

“The king is going to murder him, isn't he?” 

Lord Varys pauses as if considering the answer. Finally he decides, “They say you are the smartest of the princess's companions. Did you know that?”

“I don't care what people say about me.”

He smiles. “They say that as well.”

Ashara looks at him for a moment before stating, “You're from the Free Cities.”

Varys inclines his head, not quite a nod. 

“Why come here? Did you dream of lordships when you were a child? Did you want to come to Westeros? What makes a man with no allegiance to our country come to whisper in the king's ear? What is it you want?”

“I want what is best for the realm.” Varys quirks an eyebrow. “What do _you_ want, Lady Dayne?”

 _I want to take Elia and go home_ , she nearly confesses before narrowing her eyes at the Master of Whispers. “Whatever supports House Targaryen, of course.”

A wry smile tugs at Varys's lips. “Of course.”

Her dreams that night are full of Starks: Brandon in armor riding in a tilt, Ned chained to the wall in the black cells, and Lyanna Stark wandering through fields calling for her brothers. Ashara wakes twice to vomit, her stomach more sour than ever, and she tries desperately not to think of the wolf growing in her belly.

As dawn breaks, Ashara scribbles out a note to poor Catelyn Tully. She has never given much thought to Brandon's betrothed before, but Ashara cannot imagine what the poor girl must be going through, both the shock of her betrothed turning away from Riverrun to challenge the prince and now Brandon's arrest. Ashara wonders if the girl knows Brandon is unlikely to return, that the life she was planning is gone now. Sealing the letter, Ashara feels a rush of sympathy for Catelyn Tully, and she hopes the girl finds another man to wed, finds another path to happiness.

The door to her chamber bursts open, one of Elia's attendants – a Hightower girl, Ashara doesn't remember her name – standing there wild-eyed. “Princess Elia needs you now.”

Ashara does not hesitate to rush down the corridors to Elia's chamber. Elia is already seated in her wheeled chair, her hair only half-done. When she sees Ashara, Elia dismisses the Hightower girl and says, “Lord Stark has arrived. Aerys is calling us all to the hall to witness the trial.”

The hall is packed full of people; Ashara thinks nearly 500 men and women line the walls, and, as she pushes Elia's chair towards the Iron Throne, Ashara feels her stomach start to churn. She sees Ser Jaime and Ser Jonothor across the hall, Ser Barristan standing behind the Iron Throne. Aerys sits upon the throne, and Ashara can see the blades have already bloodied his forearms; Rhaella looks ill beside him, her hands folded over her middle. 

As Brandon and his companions are ushered in, their fathers standing in their armor, Elia takes her hand. Aerys calls forth Brandon and Lord Rickard first, and Ashara fears she may faint. She listens as Aerys lists the crimes against Brandon – attempted regicide, treason – and then listens in confusion as he accuses Lord Rickard of putting Brandon up to it, charging Lord Rickard with the same. _But he was in Winterfell,_ Ashara thinks. _He is as innocent as Ned in this insanity_ , but she has been at the Red Keep long enough to know logic plays no part here.

“I request a trial by combat,” Lord Rickard states, and Ashara can see how much Ned looks like his father. Even without armor, Rickard Stark would be a formidable presence, and Ashara wonders if he ever received Ned's request to marry her, if he wrote to her father to arrange the match. She blushes at such a frivolous thought, ashamed at thinking of herself in this moment; there is more at stake here than a marriage. 

When one of the gold cloaks brings forth some strange device, Ashara can feel the confusion in the room. Brandon struggles as they loop a leather strap over his head, and Ashara watches as they throw his sword in front of him. She gasps as the gold cloaks seize Lord Rickard, as they tie his hands and raise him above the ground. Aerys pushes to his feet, and it is only then Ashara notices the fire, notices that Brandon's sword is just out of his reach. She hears Aerys say something about the Targaryen weapon being fire, and suddenly Ashara understands.

“Oh, gods,” she whimpers, and Elia's nails bite painfully into the flesh of her hand, willing her to be silent.

It does not matter if she speaks, not when Lord Rickard's screams are echoing off the walls, not when Brandon is choking and gasping as he struggles to reach his sword and save his father. The smell of roasting flesh begins to fill the hall, and Ashara cannot believe this. This is not some minor lord or servant who has displeased the king; he is murdering the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North; as Lord Rickard's screams die and Brandon hangs lifelessly in the device, realization slams into Ashara only a moment before Aerys shouts at Maester Pycelle, “You will send a raven to the Eyrie and tell Jon Arryn that he will send Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon to me or meet the same fate!”

Elia's nails dig even deeper into Ashara's hand as they watch Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Jeffory Mallister executed, as they watch their lord fathers meet the same fate. By the time Aerys has finished, everyone in the hall looks at their feet, well and truly terrified of the king. The Mad King laughs, laughs as if he has been told the greatest jape in the world, and Ashara feels lightheaded. Her hand aches from Elia's grip, drops of blood gathering on her skin, and even Elia flinches as Aerys roughly grabs Rhaella's arm, dragging her from the hall, Ser Jaime and Ser Jonothor following.

The moment the king is gone, Ashara's knees buckle; she expects to hit the floor, but Lewyn is there, grasping her elbow tightly, holding her up as he motions for Ser Barristan to help him. She barely feels Ser Barristan's hands upon her, helping to support her as Lewyn pushes Elia's chair back to her chamber. Ashara vaguely hears Elia giving the knights orders, but it is not until Ashara is lying in Elia's bed, Elia carding Ashara's hair off of her sweaty forehead, that she is aware of what is happening.

“Drink this,” Elia urges, and Ashara sips the Dornish sour, tries to fight her way back to consciousness. When she has drained the cup, Elia cups her face, her thumbs stroking Ashara's cheekbones. “Do you want me to send for Pycelle? He can make you a sleeping drought.”

“He is going to kill Ned,” Ashara chokes out, emotion starting to rise in her throat. “He is going to kill Ned when he has done nothing wrong.”

“Ashara...”

“It is Brandon who was guilty, and Brandon would never have said a word if Rhaegar had not - “ Her voice catches, and Ashara starts to cry in earnest as Elia holds her tightly. She cries until she thinks there is nothing left in her body, but Elia's arms never loosen. When her tears finally stop, Ashara sees how exhausted Elia appears, how much of a toll this day has taken on her as well, and it is only now, safe with Elia, that she whimpers, “I want to go home.”

“I know,” Elia assures her, but Ashara shakes her head.

“You do not understand. The king...he is going to kill me too.”

“Kill _you_?” Elia echoes in shock. “What could you possibly have done?”

“Ned and I - “

“Aerys will not kill you for sharing a bed with - “

“I am pregnant.”

Elia freezes at her declaration, seeming to absorb the news. After a moment, she nods, grasping the post of her bed and making her way to her feet. Ashara watches as she crosses to her desk, composing a letter in silence before sealing it with her personal seal: a dragon flying in front of the sun. Elia lifts her voice, and Ser Lewyn enters the room, taking in the sight of them in silence.

“I need a favor, Uncle.” Handing him the letter, she explains, “Please take this to the rookery. See that it is sent to Doran, and do not leave until you have seen the raven depart. Do you understand?”

Lewyn nods, departing without a word. It is then Elia returns to the bed, nearly collapsing into the pillows. She lifts the hand mangled by her nails, pressing a kiss to Ashara's aching flesh. “You must return to Dorne.”

“I cannot leave you here,” she argues. “You must come with me - “

“Aerys will never let me go, not while Rhaegar is gone, not while war looms. How else will he keep Dorne's alliance?”

“War?”

Elia smiles mirthlessly. “My good-father has just murdered the Lord of Winterfell as well as his heir; he has murdered the heir of House Arryn. Do you believe Jon Arryn will send Ned and Robert Baratheon here to be slaughtered? No,” she continues, not waiting for Ashara to answer, “he will call his banners and Ned will call his banners and Robert as well, and war will come to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“All the more reason you must come with me!” Stubbornly setting her jaw, Ashara pronounces, “I will not leave you alone here. I can ask Pycelle for tansy - “

“You will not,” Elia cuts in a bit sharply. “If you didn't want to be pregnant, you would've cast the babe out already as you have done countless times before; instead you told not a soul, not even me. That babe, it must be almost four moons gone. If you try to cast it out now, you could bleed to death.”

“But you will be here - “

“With Lewyn, who would kill any man who tried to wound me. I will be in the Holdfast with Barristan the Bold guarding the doors, with Jaime Lannister prepared to lay down his life for us, and, when they are found, Arthur will be here as well.” Elia touches Ashara's cheek fondly. “Surely you do not think Arthur would let harm come to me? Why, he'll draw Dawn and I will be the safest princess in the land.”

“I cannot leave without you.”

“Do not make me order you away.” Drawing Ashara down into the pillows, setting her hand on Ashara's stomach, just beginning to swell, she whispers, “You carry the heir to House Stark. No matter how this war ends, with your husband or mine on the winning side, the pup in your belly remains. You will go back to Dorne, and I will stay here, and, when the war is over, our sons will play together in the Water Gardens just as we did once.”

“Ned is going to die,” Ashara whispers in return, setting her hand atop Elia's.

She doesn't argue the contrary, and Ashara loves her for it. “Whether Stark or Sand, your boy will be strong and tall and _good_. He will have his father's eyes and your smile, and one day he will be a knight of such renown that he will wield Dawn as his uncle does.”

“And what shall I call him?” she plays along, settling her face into the crook of Elia's shoulder the way she had when first coming to Sunspear, when she missed her mother so strongly, the only comfort she had was Elia's kind words in the bed they shared. 

“Something simple but strong. Mayhaps Erryk or Daemon or Jon.”

Ashara cannot help but laugh. “Jon? What, after sour Jon Connington?”

“Or sweet Jon Arryn or even kind Ser Jonothor. Jon is a fine name.”

“And if it is a girl?”

“Then I insist you call her Elia.”

Ashara thinks they laugh themselves silly to avoid crying over what has become of them. It doesn't matter. In that moment, the world is just the two of them again, and they manage to banish the horror of the morning if only temporarily.

Not quite five days later, the letter arrives announcing Jon Arryn has raised his banners.

Just like that, the War of Usurper begins.

* * *

Aerys refuses to allow Elia to leave the Keep to see Ashara off; it is to be Ser Lewyn who accompanies her to Dorne so he may lead 10,000 Dornishmen to march against the rebels. As servants carry away two trunks which hold Ashara's life in King's Landing, all Ashara can do is struggle not to cry.

“Give Aunt Ashara hugs and kisses,” Elia urges Rhaenys, who throws herself at Ashara's legs. Ashara bends, letting the little girl pepper kisses against her face. Aegon, who remains in Elia's arms, kicks his legs, and Ashara cannot help but bend to brush a kiss against the silver strands of his hair.

“Will you take good care of your mother?” Ashara asks Rhaenys, who beams up at her.

“Yes! Can we come visit you?”

“When your father comes home,” Elia answers, running a hand over Rhaenys's dark hair, “we will go to Sunspear and you will play with your cousins. It will be much fun for us all.”

Ashara can hear the false cheer in Elia's voice, and she wishes not for the thousandth time that Elia and the children were coming with her. There are whispers Rhaegar is in the Reach, but Ashara holds no faith in Rhaegar Targaryen; his selfish actions and what he has done to poor Lyanna Stark have only confirmed what Ashara always thought about the Dragon Prince. But she knows Elia hopes he will return, that he will put down this rebellion and the world will return to normal. 

As if such a thing exists anymore. As if it will ever exist again. 

She looks at Elia, and she sees it then: the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty about what is to happen. As Elia steps into her, holding her as tightly as she can with Aegon in one arm, Ashara squeezes her fiercely, pressing her face into Elia's shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of her. Warm tears roll down her cheeks, and she can hear Elia's breath hitching as she tries to choke back tears.

“We shall see each other soon,” Elia declares, her voice thick with emotion, her fingers twisting into the back of Ashara's gown. “When spring comes, we'll be at the Water Gardens together. You swear it?”

“I swear it,” Ashara immediately replies, throat so tight, she can scarcely breathe. 

Resolutely pulling back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, Elia lifts her free hand, brushes tears from Ashara's cheeks with the backs of her fingers. Ashara catches her wrist, presses a kiss to Elia's fingers, and Elia nearly breaks before requesting, “Give Doran and Oberyn my love, shower kisses on my nieces, and try to make Quentyn smile.”

“You give me an impossible task,” Ashara tries to jape through her tears.

Elia smiles weakly before grasping her hand with surprising strength. “Be safe, Ashara.”

“And you as well.”

As Lewyn enters the room, Ser Jaime lingering in the hallway, Elia swears, “I am the safest lady in the Seven Kingdoms, my friend. I shall see you in the spring.”

“In the spring,” Ashara echoes.

“Do not look back,” Lewyn advises her as they ride from the Red Keep, the weak sunlight gleaming off of his white armor. “It will only make it harder.”

“She is a hostage.”

“Yes,” Lewyn agrees, “and that is why we must win the war.”

Ashara doesn't know how much the Martells know about her pregnancy; she suspects Elia told Doran and Oberyn that she carries Ned Stark's child, and, if they know, it is likely Lewyn does as well. She does not doubt they care little about her child's paternity. But she hears the unsaid words in Lewyn's declaration, understands what he is saying without any added explanation.

The only way to keep Elia safe is to make sure House Targaryen triumphs, and to do that, Ned Stark will likely need to die. 

Boarding the ship bound for Dorne, Ashara presses a hand to her expanding waist and wonders if she will ever see her betrothed again.

She does not doubt she will see Elia in the spring.


	5. The Viper's Den

The sight of Sunspear's towers off the coast nearly brings Ashara to tears. She has not been back to Dorne since the Princess's death, not since Rhaenys was still in the womb, and Ashara has missed it sorely. It is much warmer here than in King's Landing, and Ashara sheds her cloak, stands anxiously on the dock, impatient to set foot on Dornish soil; as Lewyn helps her onto the dock, Ashara inhales deeply, grateful to be home and guilty she has come alone.

Doran and Oberyn await them in Doran's solar, and Ashara blinks in shock at the sight of Doran. He has never been as handsome as Oberyn, but what handsomeness Doran once possessed is lessened now. His thick, dark hair has shots of premature silver in it, and it looks as if he has not slept in weeks. Where Doran looks exhausted, Oberyn seems to vibrate with energy; he appears almost _too_ alert, as if he is ready to explode from his skin as he waits for something to do. Doran's guard, the one from Norvos with the long ax, stands against one wall, and Lewyn crosses to pour himself a cup of Dornish sour, dropping into a chair with the sort of relaxed movement he lacks in King's Landing. It is in this moment Ashara recognizes he is not Ser Lewyn of the Kingsguard here; he is Prince Lewyn of Dorne, and his true loyalty lies only to House Martell.

Oberyn moves forward, embracing her firmly before brushing a kiss against her lips. She is genuinely surprise when Doran embraces her as well, his lips finding her cheek before gesturing for her to take a seat. Ashara slips into one of the chairs and thinks this is one of the few rooms in Sunspear she has never been; this used to be the Lady's solar, and it was expressly forbidden for children to enter.

“Tell us of King's Landing,” Doran requests of Lewyn, and Ashara listens as the knight lays out the events of the past few moons. He describes Brandon's stupid attempt at revenge, Aerys's murders of the Starks and their companions, Aerys's orders Lewyn lead the Dornish troops; she listens as he describes the battle of Summerhall and the likelihood that Robert Baratheon's forces would be fighting Randyll Tarly and his forces at Ashford. _But where is Ned?_ she wants to ask, but she knows she cannot; these men care nothing about Eddard Stark.

“And Elia?”

She starts as she realizes the question is directed towards her. Weighing her words, trying to find a tactful way of describing the situation, Ashara decides now is not the time for tact. “She's scared but trying to pretend she is not. Her health is still frail, and she requires a wheeled chair most of the time. She is doing what she can to make sure Rhaenys does not understand what is happening, but I think she hopes Rhaegar will return and stop this.” Guilt twisting her stomach, she admits, “All she wants is to come home, but she knows Aerys will never let it happen, not while the war is being fought.”

“We must bring her home,” Oberyn immediately pronounces. “She and the children cannot - “

“The king would kill us the moment we set foot in King's Landing,” Doran interrupts. “As long as Elia remains in the Holdfast, she will be safe.”

“And the longer we sit doing nothing, the more likely it is the king will turn Rhaegar's crime into _hers_!” Oberyn retorts. “He wants 10,000 Dornishmen? He can have them when we take Elia and her children - “

“We would never get inside the walls,” Lewyn interrupts with a wave of his hand. “He's a paranoid bastard, and his Spider only makes it worse. If we march into King's Landing, he'll set the gold cloaks and whatever part of Tyrell's host remains, and we'll all be put to sword.”

“We cannot leave Elia there!”

“We already have,” Ashara speaks up, startled at her words. Seeing the look on Oberyn's face, she elaborates, “Even if you got inside the city, you'd never get into Maegor's Holdfast. She has no power there, Oberyn, not with Rhaegar gone. He'd kill her and the children before he'd ever let you take them.”

“You don't know that,” he argues.

Suddenly furious, Ashara snaps, “I have been at her side since she entered that godsforsaken place. I've seen what Aerys Targaryen does to those who displease him, those he thinks are traitors. You have heard what happened when Brandon Stark rode in to save his sister. Do you think you won't meet the same end? Does Daenerys Targaryen's blood mean you won't burn when he sets you aflame?” Sinking back into her chair, she declares, “The only way Elia will be safe is if you do exactly as the king says, and he knows it.”

Doran sighs heavily, motioning towards the guard against the wall. The large man brings forth a roll of parchment and a box of wooden pieces carved into the shapes of house sigils. Doran unfurls the map, setting the pieces on various kingdoms.

“Stark and Arryn are still in the North and the Vale,” Doran lists, and Ashara silently thanks the gods Ned is still far from the fighting. “Robert Baratheon broke the loyalists at Summerhall, and now his brother Stannis holds Storm's End. He's approaching the Reach, where the Tarlys and Tyrells will meet him; if the full force of the Tyrell army strikes and he is too stubborn to retreat, then Baratheon will be out of play. Hoster Tully has not declared nor has Tywin Lannister. And Balon Greyjoy would rather we all kill each other, and _he_ can sit the Iron Throne.”

Lewyn reaches for the Martell pieces, placing them on the Kingsroad. “Even if we march immediately, it is unlikely we'd reach the Tyrell host before Baratheon. Our only choice is to march further north, stopping Arryn's men from leaving the Vale and Stark's men from getting below the Neck.”

As the men discuss battle maneuvers, Ashara stretches out, collecting a dragon and a direwolf. She pulls them from the map, setting them on the table. Lewyn and Doran do not notice, but Oberyn's sharp eyes fall on her.

“What?”

She sighs. “Until Ned knows what Rhaegar has done with his sister, he'll never stop. If someone stole Elia, would you?” Not waiting for a response, knowing the answer, she picks up the direwolf piece and puts it on Winterfell. “The only chance we have of getting the North to withdraw is giving them Lyanna Stark. Mayhaps then Rhaegar can talk Aerys down, and the Starks will return North, Robert will return to Storm's End, and poor Jon Arryn can find a new relation to name his heir.”

“There has been no sign of Rhaegar since he took Lyanna Stark,” Lewyn reminds her. “And I do not think the king will ever allow lords who stood in open rebellion against him to return to their keeps. There is no chance of peace here, Ashara.”

“So you raise all of Dorne to kill good men because a mad man says to do it?”

“When that mad man is the king, yes.”

She knocks over one of the dragon pieces. “Someone should just kill the king.”

The Martell men look at her then, their dark eyes seeming to size her up; after a moment, Doran says, “That is not an option to be explored just yet.”

But it _is_ an option, Ashara recognizes, and she wonders just how far House Martell is willing to go to free Elia from the Red Keep.

* * *

The raven arrives a moon's turn after Ashara's arrival at Sunspear. Her waist is thickening quickly as she approaches the fifth moon of her pregnancy, her lower back starting to ache with the added weight of her child, and she finds herself embarrassed to be getting lightheaded from the afternoon heat; she is half asleep on a chaise when Oberyn finds her, hidden in the shade while Arianne and Oberyn's daughters chase each other across the grass. As he perches on the edge of chaise, Ashara sees the shadows in his eyes, and fear instantly blooms in her chest.

“Is Elia - “

“Elia is fine,” he quickly assures her. “A raven arrived from her just this morning, and she says she and the children are doing well.”

She pushes herself into a sitting position, all thoughts of sleep gone now. “But something has happened.”

“Hoster Tully has declared for Robert Baratheon.”

“We thought that might happen.”

“They sealed the agreement with a marriage contract.”

“But Robert is betrothed to Lyanna.”

“Jon Arryn wed Lysa Tully.”

Ashara winces in sympathy for the second Tully daughter, married off to a man old enough to be her grandfather. “Poor girl.”

Oberyn takes her hand, his face more serious and sad than Ashara can ever remember seeing it. “Ned Stark wed Catelyn Tully. Her father insisted he honor his brother's betrothal and make his daughter Lady of Winterfell.”

A peculiar numbness fills Ashara's body; she cannot see or hear anything, simply freezing in place. After a moment, all she can say is, “No.”

“Ashara - “

“ _No_ ,” she repeats more forcefully. “Ned and I are going to marry. He swore it. _I_ am to be the Lady of Winterfell. I carry his heir.”

“Ashara - “

“I carry his heir.” Chest tightening with pain and guilt, she chokes out, “I left Elia to protect his heir. I _left_ her. He cannot marry someone else, not when I did this, not when I left her with Aerys. There must be some mistake - “

“There's no mistake.” Oberyn hands her the letter in his hand, the one written in Elia's neat penmanship. “There was a battle at Stoney Sept. Tully's bannermen were there, and multiple scouts from the Riverlands report of the double wedding they held at Riverrun. Ned Stark _did_ marry Catelyn Tully.”

Her hands flutter unconsciously to her middle, to the loose flowing fabric of the gown Mellario gave her until new gowns can be made to accommodate her new body. The babe is moving today, restless beneath her skin, and, in that moment, she hates it. She hates Ned Stark for putting it in her belly, she hates herself for not casting it out, she hates that she will be stuck raising Ned Stark's bastard when she never wanted a child at all; but most of all she hates herself for indulging in the sort of childish fantasies she always scoffed at when she was younger, for thinking Ned Stark was different from every other man she has ever known, for abandoning Elia now when she needs her most to protect the child of a man who spared them no thought at all.

She has never been good at hiding her thoughts and feelings, and she suspects that still remains true as Oberyn's hand settles over her belly. “He was always beneath you. Had you tried to marry him, I would've dueled him on the steps of the sept.”

“Northmen marry in godswoods,” she corrects.

“Well, I certainly wouldn't have let you marry a man who talks to fucking _trees_.” As she barks out a pained laugh, Oberyn sifts his fingers through her hair, drawing her close so that their foreheads touch. “You belong in Dorne. Your child belongs in Dorne. You would never have been happy in the North, not with a man like Ned Stark.”

She is quiet, resting against him for several beats before whispering, “I do not want to raise a child alone. I haven't the skill or the desire. I did not cast it out so he would have an heir after Brandon died, and now I am burdened with it.”

“It will be no burden,” Oberyn promises. “Boy or girl, it will be fostered here. If you carry a girl, she'll keep Arianne and my girls company. If you carry a boy, he can squire for me, and we will wed our bastard children to each other.”

Ashara smiles wanly at the proposal. “Your girls are too old for my son.”

“Oh, I'll have more,” he assures her with a dismissive wave of his hand. “After all, it is so much fun to make them.” 

She moves to accommodate Oberyn, who now seeks to stretch out alongside her. As they watch the girls play, Ashara murmurs, “Elia wanted us to marry.”

“I know. She mentioned it to me dozens of times. I think she even proposed it once to our lady mother. It is the only request I've ever denied her.”

“I told her we were not meant to marry, that we'd kill each other.”

“I said the same. But that is Elia; she always worries so much over everyone but herself.” He points across the way to where Arianne and Tyene whisper and giggle. “They remind me so much of you and Elia. Of course, neither of them is remotely well-behaved enough to be like Elia, but they are closer than sisters.”

Ashara watches as Arianne wraps an arm around Tyene's pale shoulders, squeezing her cousin to her. The child inside her tumbles about, a tiny foot catching her ribs, Ashara feels her breath hitch. “I left her, Oberyn. I left her to protect someone who did not care for me at all.”

“And when the war is over, I am sure you will rectify that.” He lifts her hand, pressing a kiss to the thin skin. “You remember what my mother used to say about northerners?”

Through her pain, Ashara manages to laugh before imitating the former Princess of Dorne's voice. “'We are the only ones who were never conquered and yet _they_ think they are better than us. Use the Northerners to your advantage but only trust a Dornishman.”

“Your son will be a Dornishman. We'll teach him to be a fine man.”

“Like you?”

Oberyn laughs. “Well, mayhaps like Doran.”

He leaves Elia's letter with her, but Ashara never reads it. Masochism has never been something she indulges in, and she will not start now. Reading Elia's words will not change the truth: Ned is married to Catelyn Tully and will never be her husband. She thinks of Brandon Stark in the black cells, the letter she scribbled to the daughter of the Riverlands' lord which went unsent in the wake of his murder; she remembers the pity she had for the poor girl who lost her betrothed so violently. Ashara has never met Hoster Tully's daughter, but, having met the father, she can imagine her: auburn haired, blue eyed, skin the color of milk, a trim waist and firm teats. She doubts Catelyn Tully even knows who she is, has ever heard her name; Ashara is certain she'll never know that she bedded both of the Stark men to whom she was betrothed.

It makes no sense to hate Catelyn Tully; Ashara doubts Hoster Tully even asked his daughters if they wanted to be married off to Ned and Jon Arryn. But she thinks of Ned that night in Chataya's brothel, in the breathless noises of pleasure he made as she touched him, at the way he carded his fingers through her hair and whispered how much he loved her, and all Ashara can feel is bitter jealousy towards Ned's new wife. The idea Ned will look at Catelyn that way, will touch his wife the way he once touched her, would move her to tears if she thought they would do any good.

Ashara rests her hands on her stomach, on the last bit of Ned Stark she has left, and wonders how she will possibly be able to look at her child and not see the man who has broken her heart.

It has been years since Ashara has spoken to her eldest brother, but, when Allyn sends a raven to Sunspear requesting Ashara to return to Starfall to stay with Allyria while he marches to war, Ashara believes it is the least she can do for her house. Mellario has taken the children to the Water Gardens, Oberyn is helping to fortify Dorne in case the armies march south, and Doran tells her it might be best for her to be in Starfall.

“Should an attack fall upon Sunspear, I would hate for you to be trapped in a tower with your child.” Doran smiles in that way of his, equal parts kind and awkward, before joking, “Elia would never forgive me if harm came to you.”

Oberyn escorts her to the ship which will carry her to Starfall, an easier voyage than if traveling by horse or litter, and Ashara feels completely graceless under the heavy weight of her belly. He kisses her as warmly as he always has and, with mischief in his eyes, quips, “Mayhaps once you drop that babe of yours, our next meeting will be much more pleasurable.”

Ashara laughs at his impertinence, touching his cheek fondly. “And what would Ellaria Sand have to say about that?”

Leaning closer, more animation in his face than she has seen since the war began, he shrugs. “Ellaria does not mind being shared, and it's been so long since you and I have shared someone. You remember that night with Chataya? Oh, or that lord from the Westerlands, the one who could do that thing with his tongue?”

“Well, then, when next we meet, we will have to do that, won't we?” Ashara curls her fingers into the front of his shirts, holding him as firmly as she can with her stomach between them. “Promise me you will write the moment Elia is safe.”

“Of course.” Oberyn's hands stretch up, wrapping around her wrists. “And you promise me you will write the moment you have that child so I can begin marking the days until Ellaria and I can call on you.”

Ashara laughs, her heart feeling light for the first time in months. She lets him help her aboard the ship, swears to send a raven when she arrives safely at Starfall, and flushes with arousal at how thoroughly he kisses her before disembarking. Not for the first time, Ashara thinks how much easier life would have been if she and Oberyn could have loved each other, if they had been able to turn compatibility in bed and friendship into something more. 

If Ashara knew then it would be the last time she would see Oberyn Martell, she would have told him how much he meant to her, how he was one of the truest friends she ever had.

Instead she playfully pushes him away, orders him to behave himself, and smiles at him as the ship leaves port, raising her hand to wave as she leaves Sunspear for the last time.


	6. Starfall

Allyn is as unpleasant as he ever was; Ashara does not know why she thought it would be different. He looks at her distended stomach and scoffs.

“I always told Father it was only a matter of time before Oberyn Martell got a bastard on you.”

She does not bother correcting him; Allyn will believe whatever he wants, and it is safer if the world believes the child she carries is Oberyn's. Their father is already gone north with Lewyn, and Allyn is now set to join him. Ashara makes certain to avoid her brother for the week before he leaves, settling into the chamber which was once hers. It is odd to be home, odder still to realize it has not been home since she was Arianne's age. Home was Arthur and their mother, and both are gone now.

The only bright spot to her return is Allyria. 

At five, her baby sister is already terribly bright and incredibly energetic. She is awake before the sun and often escapes her septa's watchful gaze with next to no real effort, and Ashara loses count of how often she hears Allyria being upbraided by the poor robed woman. There is no shyness to Allyria; though Ashara is a stranger to her, she does not hesitate in those first days to put her hands on Ashara's stomach to feel movement, does not think it rude to slip into Ashara's chamber and wake her. It isn't until she has been in Starfall for a fortnight that Ashara understands why Allyria seems to be so fascinated by her: she longs for a mother.

“What was our mother like?” Allyria asks one morning while Ashara weaves her hair into a complicated labyrinth of braids. It is the only time of day Allyria remains still, and Ashara finds herself overcome with affection for the girl.

Ashara does not want to tell her sister that she barely remembers their mother, that she was taken away from her when she was hardly older than Allyria is now. The Lady of Dorne had been the woman Ashara learned from, the one who taught her lessons, explained what moonblood was, and showed her how to apply kohl around her eyes; but Ashara cannot tell Allyria that, so she tells her tales of half-remembered events and bits of falsehood peppered here and there.

She tells Allyria that Myriah Allyrion of Godsgrace was the most beautiful woman in Dorne when she wed their father. Ashara tells her how their mother would sing from her chambers, which were in the Palestone Sword because it had the best view of the Summer Sea, and how you could hear her from anywhere in Starfall; she even hums a few bars of a song, though Ashara cannot remember what exactly her mother sung. She stresses how much of a wanted child Allyria was, and it doesn't feel like a lie; Ashara remembers the miscarriages, the stillborns, and she suspects Allyria _had_ been wanted.

Ashara does not tell her how their mother was too old to bear another child, how the maesters and midwives told her that she should stop trying, and it was their father's stubborn insistence for more children which lead to her desperation to bear another. She does not tell her how their mother used to lament that it was Allyn and Arthur who inherited their father's fair skin and blond hair rather than Ashara. She certainly does not tell Allyria about the day she asked if she could marry a boy from the Reach so she could live near orchards and their mother sadly petted Ashara's dark hair and said it was unlikely she would not marry a Dornishman. Ashara doesn't explain how it took her years to understand what her mother was truly saying, how men from the other realms would admire her beauty and even try to bed her but would never never allow their sons to marry her.

Allyria is their mother in miniature: thick black hair, warm golden skin, Rhoynish features. Only her eyes hint at belonging to House Dayne, the same purple as Ashara's and their brothers', and Ashara makes certain to tell her every day how beautiful she is, how she is the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities too. 

She is telling Allyria of the Water Gardens and how, when the war is over, they will go there when Maester Jesper brings her a letter. As Allyria asks if she will get to play with Princess Rhaenys, Ashara breaks the seal and is immediately confused; the letter is from Mellario rather than Oberyn. It has been ages since Oberyn's last letter, not since the one informing her that Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys had been sent to Dragonstone. Now, as she reads Mellario's words, Ashara feels as if she has forgotten her letters entirely because none of this makes sense.

 _Rhaegar is dead, killed on the Trident by Robert Baratheon_ is the first sentence which gives Ashara pause. With Rhaegar dead, Aegon is now the heir to the Iron Throne, and Ashara knows Elia must be panicking, must known Aerys will not allow her to return to Dorne to visit with the children now. 

_Tywin Lannister and his men have sacked King's Landing_ makes her breathing catch, panic swelling in her breast before remembering no one can enter Maegor's Holdfast.

 _Jaime Lannister has killed the Mad King_ shocks her. She thinks of Ser Jaime as she last saw him, smiling indulgently at Prince Viserys as the boy begged the knight to show him how to hold his wooden sword; she cannot imagine that sweet faced boy murdering Aerys Targaryen no matter how much he deserved it.

_Lannister men have killed Elia and her children._

She does not remember screaming, but later Allyria will tell her she shrieked as if the Stranger touched her. Ashara drops to her knees, wailing as she tears at her gown, her hair, her face; she feels hands trying to contain her, dimly hears Maester Jesper shouting for assistance. The rush of fluid between her legs means nothing; even as the men carry her upstairs, even as she is stripped of her clothing, Ashara cares nothing for birthing the child trying to fight its way from her womb. Maester Jesper forces some sort of dram past her lips; it makes her head heavy, makes her feel as if she is moving fog. Women hold her arms to the mattress as two women hold her knees wide so the maester can rip her child from her body. Ashara barely feels it, barely registers the indignant wails of the babe; as her head lolls back on the pillows, all she can say is Elia's name.

“I left her,” she slurs to the woman carding hair off of her damp forehead, the one who is going to be the babe's wet nurse, the one Ashara thinks is called Wylla.

“It is a boy, my lady,” Wylla tells her. “He shall need a name.”

“I should have been there,” she continues as her eyes begin to droop, nearly choking as another dram is all but poured down her throat.

“Do you have a name for your son?” Wylla presses as the babe is given to her to suckle.

Maester Jesper keeps her well-and-truly drugged for nearly a week, as if his concoctions will make her forget Elia is dead. It is only when he declares he can give her no more sweet sleep that Ashara learns the name she has given her son is Jon.

* * *

He looks exactly like Ned.

Ashara doesn't know what she expected her child to look like; she never gave it much thought. But when she looks over the edge of the cradle on the first day she manages to leave her bed, all Ashara sees is his Stark blood. His skin is even fairer than Arthur's, smooth and soft when she runs her fingertips across his belly; when he opens his eyes, they are the stormy grey of his father's and far more alert than Ashara thinks a baby's eyes have ever been. But his hair is hers, thick and dark with hints of curls, and she is genuinely surprised at the rush of emotion she feels towards this helpless child.

Yet she cannot bring herself to hold him, to cradle little Jon in her arms; though her breasts ache with milk, she will not nurse him. Though she steals into his chamber to look upon him, Ashara cannot look at Jon without thinking of Rhaenys, stabbed half-a-hundred times, or Aegon, his head dashed against the wall. She cannot look at Jon when she knows his birth is the reason Elia died alone, that her returning to Dorne to birth him left Elia to die by Gregor Clegane's hands without a soul beside her. Ashara barely sleeps, her nightmares of Elia's final moments playing over and over in her head, and rising from her bed has become a struggle. Maester Jesper brings letters from Mellario at the Water Gardens keeping her abreast of what is happening, and the day Mellario writes that Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of Elia's children to Robert Baratheon as a gift is the day Ashara vows she will never take the knee to the drunken fool responsible for such depravity. 

Oberyn will kill them all: Tywin Lannister, Amory Lorch, Gregor Clegane, Robert Baratheon. Ashara does not doubt it, does not hesitate to believe he will burn the kingdoms to avenge Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon. One afternoon as she watches Wylla nursing Jon, Allyria hovering close by, eager to play with her nephew, Ashara wonders what happened to poor Rhaella and the babe she carried, if sweet Viserys still lives; there has been no mention of the last Targaryens in Mellario's letters, and it puzzles Ashara why she suddenly cares so much.

She thinks of the Mad King, of the way he'd ignore his queen until he burnt a man; too many times Ashara had heard Rhaella cry for help, beg someone to help her. Once, when she was looking for Rhaenys's kitten, she had stopped outside the queen's chamber to talk to Arthur. Queen Rhaella's shriek from behind the door made her jump, made her look to Arthur and Ser Barristan whom she expected to rush through the doors to save their queen; instead Barristan looked away and Arthur gently nudged her along. No one saved Rhaella then; no one ever saved her.

_Did anyone try to help Elia? Did anyone rush to protect her children? Where was the Kingsguard?_

But Ashara knows that the only knight left in Kings Landing was Jaime Lannister, the falsest knight of all.

It is the glint of the sun on white armor which draws Ashara's attention out the window. For a moment, she thinks she is hallucinating, that grief and longing has poisoned her mind into believing he is here. And then she sees him swing down from his horse, handing the reins to the stable boy, and Ashara can do noting but run, her skirts gathered in her hands.

Arthur grunts as she hurls herself into his arms, locking her arms around his neck as the tears come; her older brother's arms encircle her tightly, holding her off of the ground as if she is as small as Allyria, and Ashara has never been so happy to see anyone in her life. It has been so long, she thought him dead as well, another victim of Rhaegar's selfishness, but Arthur is here, safe and sound, and she thinks she may be fine now, that mayhaps the world is not nearly as doomed as she thought.

“I hear I have a nephew,” he murmurs against the crown of her head, and all Ashara can do is nod, refusing to release him even as he carries her back into the solar.

Allyria squeals in excitement at the sight of Arthur, and it is only then Ashara pulls away so Allyria can embrace him. Arthur tosses her into the air as if she weighs no more than a feather, Allyria laughing so joyfully, it brings a smile even to Ashara's lips. As he sets Allyria onto her feet, Arthur catches sight of Wylla lacing her gown, Jon content in her arms, and the knight grins, extending his arms for Wylla to place the boy in his arms.

“And what is this strong lad called?”

“Jon,” Allyria supplies, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “If I sit down, I am allowed to hold him but only when Wylla is done with him. He likes me lots; he does not even cry when I hold him. Well, usually.”

Arthur smiles at Ashara. “He looks like you.”

“No,” she instantly argues, folding her arms over her chest, “he is like his father.”

“In the eyes mayhaps,” Arthur allows, “but he looks just as you did when you were born.” It is then Arthur looks at her, truly looks, and Ashara feels herself flush under his gaze as he moves to hand her Jon. She steps back, shaking her head, and his brow furrows in confusion before attempting again; Wylla steps forward, offering to take the babe so they may visit, Allyria announcing her willingness to help, and Arthur keeps his eyes trained upon her as the trio disappears from the solar.

“Are you ill that you cannot hold him?”

Until this moment, no one has spoken a word to Ashara about her apparent disinterest in her child. She suspects Jesper told the servants to give her a wide berth, and Wylla never acts as if her behavior is odd in the slightest. The closest to broaching the topic anyone had come was when Wylla pleasantly told her the tale of her own first child, how she felt weighted with sadness for several moons afterward before waking up one day and feeling better. Ashara supposes she meant it to be comforting, but it wasn't; it is not the birthing bed which has burdened her down with despair.

The anger rises sharply in her chest, overwhelming in its ferocity. She does not consciously decide to strike at her brother, but suddenly Ashara is beating useless fists against his armor, bloodying her knuckles and wearying herself as she screams accusations at him.

“You were supposed to protect her! They murdered her, and it's all your fault! They raped her, they murdered her, they killed her children, and you were nowhere to be found! You and your fucking useless brothers left her to die in the Keep while you protected that treacherous bastard! You helped him steal that poor girl, and we all paid the price! You do not know! You do not know what happened, what I saw - “

Her words die as the tears come, her body sagging against his even as her fists still pound at his armor. Arthur gently catches her wrists in his hands, kissing her shredded skin, and he holds her as the grief threatens to drown her again. If it was any other day, Jesper would already have forced sweet sleep down her throat, but he will not dare to do so with Arthur here, and so Ashara sobs until her throat is raw, until her eyes feel as dry as the deserts, until the sun has set and they sit on the floor of the darkened room.

“I should have been there,” she whispers in the blackness, her head resting on Arthur's thigh as he cards his fingers through her hair. “I swore I would always be there.”

“The Mountain would have killed you too.”

“But Elia would not have died alone. No one should die alone, Arthur, but especially not her.” Her breathing hitches but there is no moisture left for tears. “She must have been so scared. And the children...Who could do that to children? They say he killed little Aegon before her eyes, that she saw her son - “

“Ashara - “

“Why did he have to rape her?” she continues, unable to stop voicing her thoughts now that she is finally able to speak. “It was not enough to kill her children, to kill _her_? Why did he have to make her last moments be _that_? To think the last thing she felt was _him_ \- “

“Ashara, please do not think of this,” Arthur pleads, and, as she looks up, she sees there is wetness shining on his cheeks, that the final moments of Elia and her children horrify him as well. “It will drive you mad.”

“Why did Rhaegar do this? Why didn't he come back for them?”

“He planned to,” Arthur murmurs. “He just had to wait until it was time, and then he was going to force Aerys to abdicate; he wanted a better life for his children, happier kingdoms for us all.”

“And, what, he wanted to rape Lyanna Stark before doing that?”

“He didn't rape Lyanna; he was in love with her.” 

Ashara pushes herself into a sitting position, rubbing at her raw face. “What?”

“It started at Harrenhal. She was the mystery knight, and he was taken with her. I think nothing would have come of it, I truly do, but then Elia was told there could be no more children and Rhaegar was convinced there had to be a third. He wrote her, and they planned to meet at Winterfell. Rhaegar wanted to marry her like the Targaryen kings of old, but Lyanna said it couldn't happen because she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. None of us imagined Brandon Stark would do what he did.”

“You stole his sister. What did you think he would do?”

“We were only to be hidden until she conceived and then Rhaegar would announce they married. But once Aerys killed Brandon and Lord Stark, once the banners were called, Rhaegar knew it would not end so easily. This was not what Rhaegar wanted.”

“But it is his fault!” Ashara explodes, scrambling to her feet. “Elia loved him, nearly killed herself giving him two children, and it was still not enough for him! He ruined everything!”

Arthur moves slowly as he rises, his jaw firmly set. She can see the pain on his face, and it strikes her suddenly that Rhaegar Targaryen was his best friend, that he loved the prince in the same way she loved the princess. It softens her then; she hates Rhaegar Targaryen, hopes he is burning in all seven hells, but he was Arthur's friend.

“What happened to Lyanna Stark?”

“There's a tower in the Prince's Pass where we have been staying. She is due in the birthing bed any day now.”

“And then? What do you think Robert will do to her babe, to _her_? Do you think you and the White Bull and Oswell Whent will be able to keep them safe forever?”

“Not forever,” he corrects. “Rhaegar gave us orders we are to keep Lyanna and the child safe, and then, if something happened to him, we were to take them both to the Free Cities.”

“The Free Cities? Why would - “ Ashara stops, realization hitting her immediately. “Jon Connington. Aerys sent him into exile; you're to take Lyanna and her child to him.”

Arthur nods. “We are to serve as their Kingsguard until the child is of age. Willem Darry has taken Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys to Braavos - “

“What happened to the queen?”

Arthur's face darkens. “She died in the birthing bed shortly before Stannis Baratheon and his men arrived on Dragonstone.” 

She thinks of the last time she saw Prince Viserys, the day before she left King's Landing for good. He had been with Ser Barristan, who blushed when Ashara greeted him. The little prince asked if it was true she was returning to Dorne, and, when she confirmed it, he frowned in that way which made him look precisely like his father and grumbled, “Everyone is going away.”

Ashara feels much the same way now as she realizes what Arthur is telling her, that he will be going to the Free Cities to protect Rhaegar's last remaining child. For as much as she hates Rhaegar, she cannot bring herself to hate Lyanna Stark; she thinks she understands the girl who wanted to escape a betrothal to a man she did not want, who harbored fantasies of being Rhaegar's wife. After all, it is the same sort of wishful thinking which lead Ashara to bear Lyanna's nephew. She knows Elia would want no harm to come to Lyanna, to her child, and it is for that reason Ashara takes a deep breath and says, “You will need supplies.”

Arthur stays only two days, the majority of his days spent playing with Allyria and doting upon Jon. Ashara finds her throat growing tight on the day Arthur leaves, at the way Arthur cradles her son in his muscled arms, his finger encircled by Jon's tiny hand. “Oh, what a strong boy you are,” Arthur murmurs. “You shall wield Dawn, won't you?”

“Arthur - “ Ashara begins, her voice cracking as she blinks back tears.

He lifts his gaze away from Jon, violet meeting violet, and deliberately he steps forward, silently urging her to take Jon from him. She does not have time to refuse, not when Arthur is transferring her son into her arms; though Jon is not a large baby, he feels incredibly heavy in her arms, his grey eyes staring serenely up at her as if he knows who she is and feels safe.

“I will send word when we are to leave. We'll likely sail from here,” Arthur tells her, his hand cradling the nape of her neck as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “You and Jon are welcome to come with us.”

It is a sweet offer, one she knows he means to be helpful, but the idea of serving Lyanna Stark, of her son being the companion of _Lyanna's_ child makes her heart ache. “Word will be enough.” Shifting Jon so she can embrace her brother, she murmurs, “I feel as if we are always saying goodbye.”

“I'll be back in a few weeks. Mayhaps by then Father and Allyn will have returned, and we can all be together before I leave.”

“I would like that,” she says, squeezing him one last time before watching him swing up onto his horse. It surprises her how much she means it, how much she would like to have her family together. As Allyria chases Arthur down the path, shouting farewells and declarations of how much she loves him, Ashara looks down at Jon, at the pout of his mouth, at the way he nuzzles against her breast as his eyes droop closed, and she cannot help but smile. For the first time, she sees her son rather than what has been lost, and, when Wylla comes to fetch him for his feeding, Ashara is almost reluctant to hand him to her.

“He's a sweet babe, isn't he, my lady?” Wylla asks in her cheerful way, easily maneuvering her nipple into Jon's questing mouth. Before Ashara can respond, she continues, “Never nursed a boy who takes to the teat so easy, and he hardly ever cries. I wish all babes were as quiet as he is.”

Taking a seat in the chair opposite of her, Ashara offers, “His father is a quiet man.”

“Handsome?” Wylla prods, and Ashara cannot help but chuckle.

“Yes.”

“It's a shame he has not seen his son. A man would be lucky to have a son as fine as this.”

“His father...He wed someone else during the war.”

Wylla clucks her tongue, stroking Jon's cheek. “The only thing war is good for is making orphans and bastards. Was your love a Dornishman?”

“A Northman.”

“Oh, I always wanted to see the North. My father, he went to White Harbor once to trade, and he said the snows were as tall as men and the whole place smelled like pine, whatever that smells like. And I've never been cold. I think I'd like to try it once.”

“You've never been outside Dorne?”

Wylla shakes her head, transferring Jon to her other breast. “No, I was barely four-and-ten when I got married, and he was in service here in the stables. My third girl was born about the same time as Lady Allyria, and your father paid me to be her nurse. My husband, useless man that he is, ran off with some girl from the Reach, so I just stay on, offering my services where I can. I was at High Hermitage for a bit, but I confess you are a much nicer lady than the other Lady Dayne.”

Ashara smiles at Wylla's bluntness. She has never much cared for the Daynes of High Hermitage herself. “You're a good woman.”

“It is easy to be a good woman when in service to good people.” 

“Yes,” she agrees, remembering Elia's smile, “it is.”

When Jon has finished suckling, Wylla pauses before asking if she'd like him again. Ashara nods, carefully cradling him as she walks the halls of Starfall. It isn't until later she realizes she has been telling him stories of Elia the entire time.

* * *

Arthur's letter arrives barely a fortnight later, dark words carried by dark wings. He writes that the child Lyanna bore died mere hours after birth; he describes the little girl he calls Visenya as silver haired and purple eyed, a true Targaryen, and Ashara cannot imagine what it must be like to be Lyanna Stark now, to know her child has died and everything was truly for naught.

 _I fear for Lady Lyanna_ , Arthur's bold hand declares. _She has fallen ill with fever, and nothing seems to quench it. Her body is so weak from the birth, we do not dare try to move her. I worry she will not last another fortnight in the state she is in._

Ashara barely knows Lyanna Stark; she cannot even remember what she looks like. But she remembers Brandon, remembers the desperation in his actions when he tried to save her, remembers the way Ned spoke of his sister, and Ashara does not want Lyanna to die alone so far from home. It is how Elia perished, Doran and Oberyn too far to help her, to tell her they loved her, and it is not a fate Ashara wishes on young Lyanna Stark.

She sends ravens to King's Landing, Storm's End, Riverrun, the Eyrie, and Winterfell, anywhere she thinks Ned might be. If in the Vale or the North, Ashara knows he will never reach the Prince's Pass in time to see his sister, but still she sends the letters. She does not write of Jon or their aborted betrothal, does not write anything beyond _Lyanna is in a tower in the Prince's Pass with the last of the Kingsguard. The daughter she birthed is already dead, and the birthing fever is like to claim her too. Hurry._

Brandon Stark started a war to win his sister back; the least Ashara can do is give Ned the chance to say goodbye.

* * *

It is a beautiful day, unseasonably warm even for Dorne, and Allyria insists they have a picnic near the cliffs. Amused by her sister's enthusiasm for the idea, Ashara agrees, inviting Wylla and her girls to accompany them. While the girls gather the last of the autumn flowers, Ashara rocks Jon while she talks with Wylla, listening to a story about two of the kitchen girls fighting over the stable master. Her ribs have just begun to ache from laughter when Allyria calls, “Ashara, who is coming up the way?”

Ashara twists her head to look and instantly hope swells sharp in her breast. Even at a distance, she recognizes Ned, sitting tall and certain in his saddle, a much smaller man riding beside him. She quickly hands Jon to Wylla, pushing to her feet, and all the anger, all the pain of the past year seems to dissipate as Ned comes closer.

 _He came for me, he came for Jon,_ she thinks as she begins to rush toward him, all cool propriety forgotten. So much has been lost since the war began, and all she wants is to have something back, to have _Ned_ back.

And then she sees the great sword strapped to his saddle, the silver pommel inlaid with amethyst, the hint of the blade pale as milk glass, the scabbard Ashara had specially made for Arthur's 30th name day. The air rushes from her lungs, shocked into numbness at what this means; her footsteps falter, and she feels Allyria sidle up beside her, confusion thick in her voice as she asks, “Why does that man have Arthur's sword?”

 _You cannot fall apart_ , Ashara tells herself as Ned approaches, climbing off of his horse, holding Dawn with great care. _You must be like Elia, like Arthur. You must be brave._

War has aged Ned. His face bears lines now, as if he is far older than nine-and-ten, and she can see dried blood on the upper arm of his shirt; his beard still covers most of his face, but his eyes - _Jon's_ eyes – are as clear as they ever were, speaking so much more than his mouth ever does.

They do not speak at first. Ashara accepts Dawn in silence, the blade nearly as long as her body, and she wonders if Arthur died with this in his hands, if he wielded Dawn until the very end. Allyria looks between them, clearly at a loss, and finally she looks up at Ned and demands, “Who are you? Where is Arthur?”

“This is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Arthur has gone away to be with Mother.”

“But Mother is in the heavens.” Allyria begins to cry immediately, her arms encircling Ashara's leg. “If Arthur is in the heavens, he cannot come back.”

Turning her attention away from Ned, Ashara motions one of the servants over. She tells him to make certain Ned and his companion are fed and given rooms before instructing another to take Dawn to its place of honor in the great hall. It takes all of her strength to heave a now sobbing Allyria up into her arms, her knees nearly buckling under the weight, but she smooths her hand over Allyria's dark hair and carries her into the keep, murmuring nonsense into her ear, trusting Wylla to see to Jon.

Allyria is inconsolable, sobbing against Ashara's shoulder until she soaks the material with her tears; she wails for Arthur, begs to know if Allyn and Father are in the heavens too, and Ashara wishes she understood children more, that she was the type of woman skilled in handling them. She rocks her sister as if she is as small as Jon, sings off-key songs and tries to remember the words the High Septon used when telling Elia of her mother's death. Nothing soothes Allyria's broken heart, and it is only after the sun has set and still she cries that Ashara allows Maester Jesper to give her a bit of sweet sleep.

She immediately heads to her own chambers after leaving Allyria, barring the door from visitors before slipping to the floor, pushing her fists into her mouth to muffle her own cries. Her own confusion could rival Allyria's; she does not understand how anyone could best Arthur in battle, how Dawn could come home but Arthur could not. For as long as she can remember, Arthur has been strong, has been heralded as one of the greatest knights to ever live; she had forgotten that even the greatest knights fall.

It takes her nearly an hour to rise from the floor and another still to make herself presentable. She carefully wipes the ruined kohl from around her eyes, washing her face clean; brushing out her hair, Ashara quickly weaves it into a thick braid which lies heavy over her shoulder. The woman in the looking glass could not appear more different than the woman Ned Stark first met at Harrenhal, but she feels beyond vanity now. The pride she once took in her beauty means nothing now, not when the people she loves are dead, not when the life she thought she would have is far beyond her grasp. She barely feels like Ashara Dayne of Starfall now; grief has transformed her into someone else entirely.

Ned and his companion are supping in the great hall, the room blanketed in heavy silence. When Ned sees her, he instantly gets to his feet, still a man of impeccable manners, and it is oddly reassuring as she makes her way to the head of the table, to the lord's seat. Someday it will belong to Allyn and his sons, but today it is hers, and she must look at the men responsible for her brother's death.

“Is Lady Allyria,” Ned begins before tapering off, obviously uncertain how to finish his question.

“Her heart is broken,” is all Ashara offers in reply, motioning for one of the serving girls to fill her wine cup. She cannot bear the idea of food, but drowning herself in Dornish red sounds like the best idea she has ever had. Turning her attention to the small man beside Ned, she says, “You were at the tourney at Harrenhal, were you not?”

The man nods. “I am Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, my lady.”

“I'm not familiar with Greywater Watch, Lord Reed.”

The crannogman smiles wanly. “Few are. We like it that way.”

It is not until she is half-drunk that Ashara dares to truly look at Ned. His hair is shaggy now, held back on the sides with a leather tie; he is wearing different clothing than when he arrived, and she notices there is embroidery on the tunic, a simple pattern of wolves. It is something a wife does for her husband, and it sours her stomach even more.

“How many men did it take to kill my brother?” she blurts out, pinning Ned with her gaze. When Ned stares at her a bit blankly, she rushes on, “I know a single man could not have done it. How many was it?”

“Our party was seven when we entered the tower,” he diplomatically replies, no true answer at all.

“You and Lord Reed must be excellent swordsmen then to best three knights of the Kingsguard. You do not strike me as a formidable opponent with a sword, Lord Reed.”

“I am not, Lady Dayne.”

“So it was _you_ who killed my brother,” Ashara determines, turning her eyes back on Ned, who does not flinch away. “I hope it was a quick death, that you gave him the honor of that. Or does Robert Baratheon not allow for quick deaths? Must everyone who bends their knee to him desecrate the ones they kill?”

“It was a clean death, my lady,” Ned calmly responds, “and he was given a proper burial as well. He deserved respect - “

“The same respect Lannister men gave Elia and her children?” she challenges. 

Ned's face darkens in anger. “What was done to Princess Elia and her children was a crime of the highest order.”

“And I suppose that is why the heads of their murderers' rest on pikes above the Red Keep? It is why Tywin Lannister was stripped of all his holdings? It is why Cersei Lannister will be kept from being queen?” She chokes out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, wait, none of those things happened. Why would they? She was just some _Dornishwoman_ , the mother of _dragonspawn_. What does she matter at all?”

“No one deserved what was done to the princess.”

“On that, we will agree.” She raises her hand, pointing to her cup, and the servant moves cautiously, as if he is uncertain whether or not to obey. Down the table, Ashara sees Wylla, her face carefully expressionless, and Ashara does not want to be here anymore. She does not want to be at Starfall, in this hall, in Dorne; she wants to be anywhere but at this table with Ned Stark.

“Lady Dayne,” Ned ventures, “you must understand - “

“How is your wife, Lord Stark?” she interrupts, and this time he flinches, his gaze dropping. “I hear it was a double wedding with Lord Arryn, a Tully girl for each. Thank goodness you did not need the assistance of House Tyrell; Janna and Mina are ghastly in every respect.”

“It was unexpected - “

“Oh, I'm certain it was! But they say the best things are unexpected, gifts from the gods even.” Sweeping her arm wide, wine sloshing a bit over the side of her cup, she rambles on, “For example, I certainly didn't expect to find myself with a broken betrothal and a bastard son, but we must soldier on, mustn't we, Lord Stark?”

Her words have hit their mark, shame and shock warring for a place on Ned's handsome face, but she does not care. Half-stumbling from her chair, she bids no one goodnight, unable to stand the sight of Ned a moment longer. By the time she reaches her bed, the room is spinning, and all she can do is close her eyes and pray this has all been a terrible dream.

* * *

In the morning, her head aches and her mouth is as dry as the desert, but Ashara knows she cannot stay abed. Allyria is sniffling with remembered loss even as Ashara enters her room, and it is the first morning she does not plead with Ashara with style her hair. Instead she rests her head against Ashara's shoulder and asks if they can play with Jon.

Allyria is carefully cradling Jon in her arms, Ashara protectively hovering at her elbow to help, when Wylla leads Ned into the solar. Her immediate instinct is to chastise the wet nurse, to send Ned away this moment, but she sees the way his face softens at the sight of Jon, the way his hands flex like a child forbidden to touch. Without wine and acute sorrow clouding her judgment, Ashara finds there is a strange hole in her heart where Ned is concerned.

“Allyria, why don't you go with Wylla and break your fast? Jon and I will be here when you're finished.”

Reluctantly handing over her nephew, Allyria ignores Ned, taking Wylla's hand and allowing herself to be lead away. The closing of the solar's door seems impossibly loud, and, for all of the conversations she once planned in her head, Ashara finds she now has no idea what to say to the father of her child.

“Do you want to hold him?” she finally asks, and Ned nods immediately. His hands do not waver as he slips one hand beneath Jon's back, the other supporting the baby's head so he can look upon him. The genuine awe on his face makes Ashara ache, the pain deepening as he murmurs, “What is his name?”

“Jon.”

“Jon,” Ned repeats, a smile playing at his lips. “Oh, that is a fine name. When was he born?”

“Three moons past, just after – Just after King's Landing was sacked.”

As he tucks Jon close to his body, Ned sinks into one of the chairs, his face obviously troubled. After a moment, he looks up at her and asks, “Why did you not send word of him? If I had known - “

“You would have married Catelyn Tully anyway, but I would have a beautiful letter explaining why you did,” she interrupts, no malice in her voice. “Besides, where was I to send word? The Stoney Sept? The Trident? Riverrun?”

Ned's eyes return to Jon, whose eyes are drooping shut, lulled by the sound of their voices. “It was not easy for me,” Ned informs her, his stoicism slipping with each word. “I certainly did not intend to break my promise to you, but - “

“But you needed Hoster Tully's bannermen, and he would not give them without his daughter being made Lady of Winterfell. I spent years of my life in the Red Keep, Ned. I _do_ know how allegiances are made.”

So soft Ashara nearly does not hear, Ned whispers, “I did not know you came home. When I rode into King's Landing, when I saw what the Lannisters had done, I feared - “ He shakes his head, appearing to hold Jon even tighter. “I did not want this to be how we met again.”

“I am sorry I could not die and make it easier for you.”

“That is not what I meant!” Ned snaps, startling her and Jon both. As he tries to soothe Jon's high whimpers, he fiercely growls, “How could you think that? You have no idea how often I thought of you.”

“And when did you think of me, Ned? When you were taking Catelyn Tully's maidenhead? I mean, assuming Brandon left her with one - “

“Do not do this, Ashara, please.”

Guilt tugs at her heavy heart, and she wishes she was more even-tempered, wishes she could be as quiet and still. After a moment, she rises, crossing to the far window to stare out at the Summer Sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs. Finally she murmurs, “I think it is best if you leave as soon as possible. If you are here when my father and Allyn return, it will become quite unpleasant.”

When she finally turns back around, Ned is gazing down at Jon, his eyes wet with emotion. The sight steals her breath, strikes her sharply in the tenderest part of her heart, and Ashara bites her tongue to keep all her words from spilling out, leaving her bare before him.

“Howland and I will leave at dawn,” Ned agrees, one calloused finger stroking the softness of Jon's cheek. “I have inconvenienced you enough.”

Ashara leaves him in the solar with Jon, unable to bear the sight of Ned being so sweet with their son another moment.

* * *

It is not planned, but then so much of Ashara's life has occurred without one. Allyria is asleep in Ashara's bed, her face pushed into feather pillows, her arms wrapped tightly around the doll Arthur gave her on her last name day; she looks even smaller in the sea of blankets, and there is something in the way Allyria instinctively pushes her head to follow Ashara's caress of her hair which brings to mind Rhaenys. After Aegon's birth, when Elia was so weak she could scarcely move some days, it had fallen to Ashara to soothe Rhaenys when Rhaella was not available, and sometimes, when she is balanced on the edge of sleep and awake, Ashara swears she hears Rhaenys's giggle, catches the scent of the juniper soap Elia used to wash her hair, glimpses Balerion leaping onto a chair. Suddenly her chamber feels too small, too stifling, and all Ashara wants is to forget what has been done to the people she loves and seek revenge on those who did it.

The night dress was a gift from Oberyn, one of the many he brought back from the Summer Islands after Sarella's birth. It is beyond indecent, diaphanous orange silk held together with little more than hope and a few bits of thread; the neckline plunges deep, her breasts nearly exposed, the darker skin of her nipple visible through the material. She has not worn it since the night of Elia's wedding, and her body has changed from carrying Jon; it clings through the hips, the swell of her stomach making the material lay oddly, but Ashara is not concerned. Dragging the brush through her hair, Ashara arranges it to fall becomingly over her shoulders, dabbing stain onto her lips to make them full and red. She gazes upon her reflection, but it is not herself she sees. This woman is too sad, too plainly weary to be the woman Ned Stark fell in love with at Harrenhal; she is too beaten down to be the woman who sneaked from the Red Keep to meet her lover in Chataya's brothel.

Ashara does not know this woman.

The door to Ned's borrowed chamber is not barred; Ashara slips in silently, sliding the bar in place before moving towards the bed. The Lord of Winterfell lies naked on the bed, his clothing discarded on the floor, the windows all open and the bedclothes tangled at the foot of the bed. His back has scars now, a thin dribble of tissue at the small of his back with a thicker, more gnarled scar cutting across his shoulder; she traces a shining scar curved over his hip, feeling the warmth of his skin. He is as hot as the Dornish deserts, and she smiles at it; Wylla often complains that Jon sweats straight through his blankets and clothing, his body rebelling against the heat. She perches on the edge of the bed, bending to kiss the blade of his shoulder, her lips whisper soft; he makes a noise in his throat as her tongue slides across his skin, gathering the taste of salt, tracing the bumps of his spine. As she lies atop him, kissing the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, she slips her hand beneath his body, over the softness of his stomach to where his cock grows hard.

 _You are not so different from Brandon, are you?_ she thinks uncharitably. 

As her fingers brush the head of his cock, Ned suddenly twists, catching her off-guard, slamming her onto her back; it is not until she sees the wildness in his eyes Ashara realizes she has scared him, and Ned releases her immediately, gasping, “Ashara, I am sorry. I did not know - “

She reaches up, grasping his hair and attempting to pull him down for a kiss; when he does not budge, she arches up, nearly spilling out of her dress, pressing her lips firmly against his. The rasp of his beard against her face awakens the memory of their first kiss, and Ashara suddenly wants him with a ferocity she does not recognize, a hunger which has little to do with what she feels for the man he is now and far more about recapturing the man who blushed at a simple dance.

“Ashara, no,” he murmurs, twisting his face from hers, his hands catching her wrists to keep her from grabbing at him again. “Please stop.”

“Why?” she challenges, raising her knee to rub against his cock. “You want me.”

“We cannot - “

“We _can_.”

“I have a wife!” he bites out breathlessly, releasing her hands to grasp for the bedclothes to cover himself. “And you do not want this.”

“Don't tell me what I want!” she snaps, wrenching the night dress from her body, taking a peculiar pride in the way Ned's eyes fall to her breasts despite his protestations. “It is not like we have not done this before.”

“It was different,” Ned insists, deliberately looking away from her nude body. “Catelyn is a good woman, a good mother, and she does not deserve - “

“Mother?” Ashara echoes, all of the fight leaving her body. Hating the waver in her voice, she asks, “She had your child?”

“Her letter came shortly before yours to tell me of Robb's birth.”

“Robb.” A bitter bark of laughter slips past her lips. “Of course his name is Robb.”

“Ashara - “

Her sobs are harsh and loud, bursting from her chest with such violence, it makes her chest ache. She buries her face in her hands, feeling as young as Allyria as she realizes the last small victory she held – Ned's son – is no victory at all; Catelyn Tully has been given the life Ashara thought was hers, and now Ned will forget Jon the moment he is presented with his legitimate son. The swirl of emotions in her chest is as confusing as it is powerful; Ned has stood beside Robert Baratheon even after what happened to Elia, he killed Arthur, he forgot her as he married Catelyn Tully, but she does not want to be left again, even if it is by a man who has profoundly disappointed her. 

Ned gathers a sheet, draping it around her shoulders, and, as she looks at him through her tears, she sees the boy from Harrenhal. Wiping at her tears with the back of her hand, she whimpers, “It all truly was for nothing.”

“No, it - “

“I watched the Mad King kill them,” she cuts in, pulling the sheet around her, feeling a hollowness inside her. “We all saw and did nothing to save them. Your father – Brandon - “

“We do not need to speak of this,” Ned assures her, his own voice roughening with emotion. “With all that has been lost, it does nothing to dwell upon it. What you did for Lyanna...”

“Arthur was going to take her and the baby to the Free Cities where they would be safe. He invited Jon and I to come.” Fiddling with the edge of the sheer, she whispers, “He was the greatest man in all Seven Kingdoms.”

“Tell me about him.”

It is the strangest way she has ever spent a night with a man. As she and Ned lie in the bed, she tells him tales of Arthur while he offers his own stories of Brandon and Lyanna; it is easier to speak of those who have fallen than of themselves, to acknowledge all which remains between them. Ashara talks herself hoarse as she describes the day Arthur was given Dawn, describes what it was like growing up with Elia and Oberyn, and, when Ned speaks with lingering affection about his sister scaling the walls of Winterfell like a spider, of Brandon teaching him to shoot a bow, Ashara understands he is as heartbroken as she is.

As exhaustion seeps into her body, Ashara's eyes dropping closed, she feels Ned's lips against her forehead before he whispers, “I know I have dishonored you and no words will never be enough, but I am glad we have Jon.”

“He looks so much like you,” she murmurs, half-asleep.

Ned chuckles softly. “And all I see in him is you.” His fingertips stroke back and forth across her upper arm, so soft she thinks she may be imagining the touch, when he declares, “He will always have a place at Winterfell. Whether or not he has my name, his blood is of the North, and he will always be welcome.”

His words rouse her, bring her back to the world; the absolute acceptance of Jon is something Ashara cannot guarantee their son. Allyn and her father know who fathered her son, and she cannot imagine they will allow her to stay at Starfall to raise the son of the man who slayed Arthur. She thinks of Oberyn's offer before Elia's death, to foster Jon at Sunspear and marry him to one of his daughters, but she wonders if he would be welcome there either, the son of a man who did not disavow a man who sneered over the murdered bodies of children. There is no place in Dorne for Ned Stark's son, not now, mayhaps not ever.

Ned sleeps heavily enough that he does not notice when she slips from the bed. Fetching a dressing gown from her chamber, Ashara hurries down the corridor to Jon's chamber, Wylla snoring in the bed alongside his cradle. She bends beside the woman, stirring her awake.

“My lady,” Wylla says, voice confused, “is something wrong?”

“Do you still wish to see the North?”

The sun is just starting to rise when Ashara exits the keep with Wylla, Jon in her arms. Ned and Howland Reed are packing their saddlebags, and, when Ned sees her, he stops, his face folding into a small smile at the sight of Jon. As Wylla goes towards the stables, Ashara easily hands Jon to Ned; Jon settles easily into his father's arms, and Ned softly sighs, “Good morning, my boy.”

It is a sword through the heart to hear such blatant affection in his voice, and Ashara irrationally wishes she could everything over, that she could go back to when Jon was first born and not waste time with him; Jon deserves to be loved and adored, and she feels unbearably guilty she ever deprived him of such a thing.

“Thank you for allowing me to say goodbye.”

Ashara shakes her head. “I am the one who is saying goodbye.”

“What?”

Folding her arms over her chest, Ashara explains, “When I first discovered I was pregnant, I kept him because he was the heir to House Stark. And while I know it is no longer an option, so long as he is in Dorne he will be thought of as your son and hated for it. With Elia gone, I have no place except Starfall, and, even if my father allows me to raise the son of a man who killed his child, it will not be a happy place. Jon deserves to grow up as we did: safe and happy, surrounded by other children. He will never have that here.”

Eyes widening with realization, Ned shakes his head. “It does not have to be like this. You are his mother - “

“And a poor one,” she interrupts. “I can scarcely draw myself from bed some days. As much as I love him, I resent him in equal measure. That is no way for a child to be raised.” Chin trembling despite herself, she pleads, “You must understand that this is the best thing for him. He and your other children will be siblings; they will love him and protect him, just as you will. Tell me you will.”

“A boy needs a mother.”

“A boy needs a _father_. He is more Snow than Sand; Jon belongs with you.”

She can see a thousand different emotions dance across his face, his eyes darting from Ashara to Jon and back again. Finally he asks, “You're certain this is what you want?”

“It is what Jon deserves,” she replies, sidestepping the truth that this is hardly what she wants, that she wants to see Jon grow to be a man as fine as Arthur was, wants to watch Ned teach him to hunt and ride. Circumstance has dictated Jon can only have one parent, and Ashara would rather it be the parent who can give him the happiest life possible.

He nods somberly as Wylla reemerges with a saddled mare. Ashara reaches for Jon, kisses his sweet smelling curls, enjoys the press of his soft, warm face against her throat for the last time. “I love you, sweet boy,” she whispers, kissing him one last time before handing him to Wylla, who begins the task of bundling him against the front of her body. Wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye, she looks to Ned and says, “May I ask a final favor of you?”

“Anything.”

“Someday, when Jon asks about me, when you think he is old enough, tell him the truth of us. Tell him something sweet about me, even if it is a lie.” Tears welling in her eyes, she begs, “Promise me you will not let him think the worst of me.”

“I promise.” Cupping the side of her face, he repeats, “I promise.”

She watches the party depart until she can see them no longer, the horses disappearing in the morning light. Even as her body screams for her to chase them, to take Jon back and vow to do anything to care for him, Ashara knows this is for the best. Ned will be a good father, and Jon will grow to manhood alongside his siblings, able to have every privilege Ned's trueborn children will have. 

_This is the right thing_ , she tells herself.

Ashara wonders how often she will have to repeat the words before truly believing them.

* * *

“There is a man here to see you, my lady.”

Ashara looks up from the book she is reading to Allyria, genuinely puzzled as to who would be calling on her. With her father and Allyn returned to Starfall, it is rare that anyone seeks her out; most of her days are spent with Allyria, who is equally ignored, and she often wonders if this is how it is to be for the rest of her life.

“Did he give a name?”

“No, my lady, but he has a child with him.”

Hope swells sharply in her chest as she follows the servant to the solar where the man waits. She knows it is stupid and childish to think Ned has returned to her with Jon, that he has traveled a thousand leagues back to her after departing only weeks ago. And yet, when she enters the solar and finds her caller is too small to be Ned, the child too large to be Jon, disappointment still rushes through her veins.

“May I help you?”

When the man lifts his face, Ashara instantly recognizes him. Even beneath the ridiculous hair and changes to his face, she would know the Master of Whispers anywhere. “Hello, Lady Dayne.”

“What are you doing here? How dare you come here - “

“I have not come to upset you, Lady Dayne,” Varys rushes to assure her. “I have come to give you a gift, a gift for us all.”

“I want nothing from any of Robert Baratheon's men, least of all you,” she growls, turning on her heel to have Varys removed. 

“You do not recognize the boy, Lady Dayne?” he calls, stilling her retreat. “He is older than when last you saw him, but he does look so much like his father.”

Ashara pauses, looking at the boy toddling about the floor. He is tall for his age, which she estimates to be younger than two, with fair skin; his dark hair is fine as down feathers, and, for a moment, she thinks Lord Varys has traveled all this way to have a jape at her expense.

And then she sees the boy's eyes.

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, sinking to her knees so she is eye level with the little boy. She sifts his hair through her fingers, sees the roots of his hair are silver, and Ashara nearly sobs as the boy smiles, touching her face and hair with little hands. “How?” is all she can manage.

“Princess Elia was a very smart woman. She knew if something were to happen to Aerys, her children would be at risk. Rhaenys was too old, too known by those at court, but it was a simple matter to switch a baby in its cradle. I told the princess that, when the time was right, I would bring him to you.”

“To me? Why? The Martells - “

“If a silver-haired child suddenly appears at the Water Gardens, how long do you think it would be until word reached King Robert? No, the boy must be hidden and hidden well until the time is right.”

“Right for what?”

“For him to take back what is his.” Varys looks as serious as he ever has as he declares, “What was done to the princesses was a travesty. I begged the king to keep the city locked to Tywin Lannister. I promised the princess I would bring the prince to you, and I have fulfilled that promise.”

“He will not be any better hidden here. You think people will not whisper if I suddenly there is a small boy at Starfall?”

Varys inclines his head. “And that is why you cannot remain here.”

“And where would I go?” 

“A friend of House Targaryen resides in Pentos. He has offered to care for you and the prince until the next step is to be taken.”

Ashara traces the dainty features of Aegon's face, sweeping her finger down the bridge of his nose which is so like Elia's. “Is that where Viserys and the baby are?”

“No, the prince and princess are well-cared for by Ser Willem. You and Aegon would remain in Pentos until - “

“And what is this next step?” she pushes, getting to her feet. “You cannot expect me to do this all on your word.”

“Of course not. It is important that King Robert thinks there is no threat left to his reign. In a few years, word will reach King's Landing that Jon Connington has drunk himself to death. At that time, he will join you and Aegon, and the boy's true education can begin.” When Ashara says nothing, uncertain how much to trust the things he is saying, Varys adds, “This is what Princess Elia wanted. Do you not want to protect her son?”

It is not even a question; of course she does. From the moment she left King's Landing, all Ashara has thought of is Elia and her children, the failure which haunts her every moment. It will never alleviate the pain of losing Elia, of knowing what was done to her and little Rhaenys, but she is grateful Elia knew her son was safe.

“What will I have to do?”

It is a remarkably simple plan. Varys explains that, in order for this plan to work, Ashara Dayne must die. The idea of faking her death bothers her only because of Allyria, who has already lost so much in her short life, but Ashara knows there is no other way to safely spirit away Aegon to safety. She writes two letters that night, one for Allyria and one for her father, leaving them in what was once her mother's chambers in the Palestone Sword. Ashara stares out the window at the waves crashing against the cliffs, inhaling the scent of the Summer Sea before doing as Varys bid, tossing her slippers into the sea.

 _Forgive me_ , she silently asks of Allyria as she steals from Starfall, sneaking to the inn where Varys awaits with Aegon.

It is bizarre to catch her reflection in the looking glass after Varys dyes her hair. The dark waves she once took such pride in are now as pale as Arthur's hair, a tumble of white gold which would have made Elia laugh. As she winds it into a knot at the base of her skull, she sees Varys removing something from a pack, holding up the garment for her inspection. This time, Ashara _does_ laugh, the idea so preposterous she can hardly believe it.

“A septa's robes? Surely there is another option.”

“Do you ever remember a passing septa's face? You are a beautiful woman, Lady Dayne; the less people are like to notice it, the better. Besides, who would believe Ashara Dayne to be a septa?”

The robes are damnably hot, itch terribly, and smell musty, but Ashara dons them, barely recognizing herself at all. As she holds Aegon against her as they approach the docks to board the ship bound for Pentos, Varys says, “You will need a new name.”

After a moment, Ashara decides, “Lemore. I shall be Lemore.”

Varys smiles sadly. “Safe travels, Septa Lemore.”

The only time Ashara ventures from her cabin on _The Cinnamon Wind_ is when they sail past Dorne. Carrying Aegon up to the deck, she points to the towers of Sunspear and whispers, “That is your mother's home. You are a Prince of Dorne, the blood of the dragon, and some day men will cheer for your return. And when you return, my son will be the Lord Commander of your kingsguard, and never will you fear when Jon Snow is at your back.”

It is just a story now, but one day it will be true. Ashara will do anything to _make_ it true.

But for now, she is Septa Lemore, a mother to no one, and Pentos awaits.


End file.
